


Purple Like Violets

by Flye_Autumne



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Death Eaters, Fae Magic, Gen, Jewish Character, Mentor Severus Snape, Pureblood Culture (Harry Potter), Pureblood Hermione Granger, Pureblood Society (Harry Potter), Slytherin Hermione Granger, Spy Hermione Granger, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:42:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23187961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flye_Autumne/pseuds/Flye_Autumne
Summary: Bellatrix Lestrange was always a bit mad, but one particular event pushed her into insanity. Fifteen years later, Hermione must come to terms with a startling truth and become someone she never thought she'd be: a perfect Death Eater's daughter.
Comments: 99
Kudos: 384
Collections: May I Slytherin?





	1. A Particular Potion

_30 October 1981_

There was a faint pull as the wards were passed followed by a heavy knocking on the door. Severus Snape was on his feet in an instant, wand in hand before the panicked voice of Bellatrix Lestrange pierced the thin door of 7 Spinner’s End.

“Severus? Severus!” 

_Bugger._

“Severus, let me in!”

The knocking resumed as Severus carefully made his way over to the door, thanking Merlin, all the wards were still intact. “ _Hostili Revelare,_ ” Severus intoned. “ _Ordinem Insidiis Eu._ ” Severus paused for a moment to peer through the peephole. One can never be too careful. “ _Obice Carminibus. Hominium Revelo._ ” Two lights glimmered through the door. 

“What did Bellatrix Black tell Severus Snape during their first conversation at Hogwarts?” 

“That a little runt like him knew far more about the Dark Arts than he had any business knowing as a First Year. Then I asked him to tutor me.” 

“Who is with you?”

“Severus, I -” 

“ _Who_ is with you, Bella? You know very well that I will not let you in until you tell me,” Severus snapped. The other Death Eaters insisted he was paranoid, but then again, he was alive, which couldn’t be said for the elder Carrows. 

Severus shivered involuntarily. The Aurors’ attack on Erinyes and Electra Carrow had left nothing to bury. 

“It’s just me and Cassiopeia. Leo - they -” the witch’s voice broke. Bloody hell.

Severus threw the door open. “Come in. Quickly.” He shooed the witch inside and closed the door firmly behind her. 

Bella propped the curly haired toddler higher on her hip. “Severus - they -” 

“In the sitting room. The wards are stronger.” 

“The Aurors - they - they killed Leo. Rodolphus and I-” 

Severus’ stomach clenched. It was one thing for the Aurors to murder known Death Eaters, but quite another to murder a six-month-old child. 

“What happened.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Rodolphus and I were summoned by the Dark Lord. Leo and Cassie were at home with Nippy. The wards had just been updated - we thought they were safe - when we got back, the wards were breached - Cassie’s accidental magic acted up, and we found her later in a cupboard in the kitchen - but Leo -” tears streamed freely and Bella made no effort to stop them “ - the nursery - it was destroyed - Leo - his head was smashed into the wall - there was blood everywhere - Severus, you have no idea - HE WAS SIX MONTHS OLD WHAT BLOODY QUARREL DID THE AURORS HAVE WITH AN INFANT?” Bella screamed. “THE BLOODY FUCKERS MURDERED MY SON!” Bella collapsed on the worn chesterfield, holding her daughter close as sobs wracked her body. “Severus - you have to help -” 

“I -” 

Bella’s haunting grey eyes locked on his. “You don’t understand,” she hissed. “I need to vivisect the fuckers who murdered my son with my bare hands and watch them scream as they attempt to hold their innards in as they bleed out on their heirloom carpets. I _need_ to make them regret the day they laid hands on my child.” 

“Bella, I -” Severus’ mind was spinning. One did _not_ refuse one of the Dark Lord’s top lieutenants and emerge in one piece. Any attack on the Aurors was a suicide mission, and Severus liked his soul where it was in his body. If Bella honestly thought he was going to accompany her - 

“Severus, promise me -” 

“Bella, I’m not putting myself in the face of danger for a harebrained revenge scheme!” Severus all but shouted. “The Aurors are going to eat you alive - the best case scenario is life in Azkaban!” 

“I know.” The witch’s eyes burned.

“You know,” Severus repeated numbly. 

“I don’t care what happens to me. I _need_ to hurt the bastards that murdered my son.”

“I underst-” Severus began. 

“No, you don’t. You don’t understand the _need_ to rip these bastards limb from limb. You don’t understand what it’s like to come home with your child’s brains splattered against the nursery wall and the other, by fluke of the universe, crying in a kitchen cupboard. You have _no bloody idea_ what it’s like, Severus Snape. _No bloody idea._ ” Bella took a breath. “I’m not asking you to get involved. I have to do this. Rodolphus, Rabastan and I need to do this. The Dark Lord wants to end this bloody war.” She grasped his arm fervently. “Rodolphus and I will do _anything_ in our power to end the bastards that ended our son, and all I need is for you to help me.” 

Severus opened his mouth to protest, but Bella cut him off. 

“I’m not asking you to fight my battles for me. All I need is for you to protect my daughter.”

 _What in the name of Merlin?_ “I cannot possibly…” 

“Who else would? Dolohov? The Carrows? Rosier?” 

“I -” 

“You have to.” 

“I cannot raise a child, Bella! I do not know the first thing about children! I never wanted children - I -” 

“You’re my only option.” Bella’s eyes bored into him. “I don’t trust you. I just trust you more than the other Death Eaters.”

Severus was flabbergasted. She was not wrong, but -

“Here,” Bella said shortly, thrusting a sleepy toddler at him. “Take her. Protect her like she’s your own.” 

Severus reflexively grabbed the girl, and was surprised she was not nearly as heavy as she looked. He balanced the girl awkwardly on his hip - he had never held a child before - and looked at Bella expectantly. Surely there was some sort of user manual she could loan him. 

“Obliviate me.” 

“What?” Severus was completely and utterly flummoxed. 

“You heard me, Snape. Obliviate me.”

“Why in the name of Merlin..?”

“It’s need to know, Snape. Just fucking do it.” 

“But you will not remember -” 

“That’s the point of a bloody Obliviate, isn’t it?”

“How will you find-” 

“Put a key in it. Or was the Dark Lord exaggerating your prowess with the magic of the mind?” 

Severus bristled. “You dare question...of course I can bloody do that!” 

“Then get on with it!” 

Severus heaved a mental sigh and settled Cassiopeia - he’d never understand why the Blacks had a penchant for such ridiculous names - on the chesterfield. 

“You’re truly certain?”

“Isn’t that what I just fucking said!?” 

“You realize that if I die, it’s likely that no one will be able to guess the key and you will be left forever without memories of your daughter?”

Bella gritted her teeth. “It’s a risk I’m willing to take. If you ever have children of your own...you’ll understand that need to protect them with your _life_. I -- just get it over with. Before I lose my fucking nerve.”

“You don’t want to say good-bye?”

“It’ll just make it harder.”

“Momma?” 

Severus and Bella’s heads snapped to attention at the same moment. Cassiopeia was rubbing her eyes -- her disturbingly violet Lestrange eyes -- and staring at them in confusion.

“Do it, Snape.” 

Severus took a deep breath. “ _Legilimens._ ” 

Bella’s mind was filled with swirls of smokey pain, and Severus quickly plunged past the first layers into Bella’s memories of her daughter. Cassiopeia, chubby legs sticking out of her nappy, gamboled through Bella’s thoughts. Severus slowly began pulling the most recent ones together, tying strands, compacting the post-attack memories into a small and easily hideable package. After several long minutes, he withdrew from her mind.

“Snape?”

“ _Stupefy._ ” Bella fell like a marionette with its strings cut. “ _Obliviate_.”

On the chesterfield, Cassiopeia began to cry. Severus hastily levitated Bella out of the living room and into the foyer before casting a strong Silencing Charm on the living room.

“ _Ennerverate_.” 

Bella opened her eyes and looked at him in confusion. “Snape, why am I on the fucking floor?”

“You slipped and knocked your head,” Severus lied. 

Bella was silent for a heartbeat. “I’m leaving,” she said abruptly. “I’ve got murders to plan.”

With that, she turned on the spot and vanished.

* * *

_Fifteen years later..._

* * *

_16 April 1997_

“Now today’s potion -” Professor Slughorn rapped the board smartly “-is Abstammung’s Ancestry Potion. Can anyone explain the reaction of the key ingredients?”

Hermione’s hand quickly shot into the air. This was an easy question, one she took special delight in answering given that it was not in their copy of _Advanced Potion Making_ and had required several hours of extra reading in the library. 

Slughorn looked hopefully around the room. “Miss Granger?” 

“Jobberknoll feathers, which are commonly used in truth serums and memory potions, are one of the key ingredients in Abstammung’s Ancestry Potion,” Hermione quickly recited. “When combined with a solution of foxglove, neem oil, and horklump juice, the truth-seeking elements of the Jobberknoll feathers are free to interact with the user’s blood, which allows a detailed family tree to be formed when the potion is added to Pergament Vellum.” 

“Perfectly stated - five points to Gryffindor. Could anyone explain the properties of Pergament Vellum?”

Hermione’s hand shot back into the air.

“Miss Granger?” 

“Pergament Vellum is a vellum formed from the skin of a Moon Calf. It is then treated with an oil made from red myrrhe and rue so it can more effectively absorb the potion.”

“Once again, precisely correct. Take five more points for Gryffindor.” 

Hermione beamed. 

“Now, there’s one key part of the potion that no one has touched upon yet. Can anyone spot it? Mr. Malfoy?” 

“The family trees are constructed using our true wizarding names instead of our given names.” 

“Excellent. For those of you who are muggleborn or muggle-raised, true wizarding names are the full version of our names used on official documents. First and middle names tend to be traditional family names and the surnames of both of the mother and father are used. My full wizarding name is Horatio Eugene Flaccus Slughorn. Both Horatio and Eugene are family names, and Flaccus is my mother’s surname while Slughorn is my father’s surname. Mr. Malfoy, if you could give us another example?” 

“My true wizarding name is Draconis Lucius Black Malfoy. Draconis is the latinized version of my given first name, Lucius is my father’s first name, Black is my mother’s surname, and Malfoy is my father’s surname.” 

“Excellent, excellent. Now, are there any questions? No? You may begin brewing.” 

Hermione immediately set to work. The neem oil and horklump juice were quickly combined and gently heated as Hermione began shredding the lavender. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Harry flipping through his copy of _Advanced Potion Making_ with a look of dismay. 

“You know the potion isn’t in the book, right?” 

Harry jumped. “What? Er, of course.”

“You didn’t research it at all, did you?”

“Er - ”

Hermione quashed down a brief feeling of smugness. “All the instructions are on the board. Didn’t you hear Professor Slughorn?”

“Er, of course I did. Erm, I’ll be getting started now.” 

Hermione smirked and returned to shedding the lavender. Without the stupid Prince to help him, Harry was quite likely to fail.

Three-quarters of an hour later, Hermione’s potion was the precise shade of periwinkle detailed by Slughorn’s instructions. Ron and Harry, on the other hand, hadn’t been as successful. The sludge in Ron’s cauldron was a deep shade of forest green and while Harry had at least managed to make his potion blue, it was royal, not the specified periwinkle. 

“For those of you who have finished or are finishing up, there are stock vials of potion for you to compare your sample to. If you have bungled up your potion, you may use some of the stock potion to create your family tree. If you are unsure if your potion is the appropriate color, please ask me. The Pergament Vellum can be found at the end of the front lab bench.” 

Harry, Ron, and Hermione submitted their sample potions to Professor Slughorn, and Hermione was inordinately pleased that both boys would need to use stock potion to construct their family trees. Vellum in hand, the trio headed back to their seats. 

“Remember, seven drops of blood, then seven swirls of the vial,” Hermione reminded them. 

Ron rolled his eyes. “We know, Hermione. We’re not stupid.” 

Hermione raised an eyebrow. The contents of Ron’s cauldron indicated otherwise. 

“Alright,” said Harry. “Here goes nothing.”

A drop of the now rich red potion was delivered to the center of the vellum, and Hermione watched in awe as spidery letters began to form. 

“Bloody hell, mate, you’re related to everyone!” Ron exclaimed. “We’re even technically related, if you go back far enough. See, look, I’ve got a Black on my family tree too…” 

Hermione stared at Ron’s family tree. “Your wizarding first name is Raghnall?” she asked in disbelief.

Ron nervously carded a hand through his hair. “Yeah. I mean, it’s not that odd, really. It’s the Gaelic form of Ronald - my older brothers were the ones who got family names - Fred and George are named for my mother’s brothers Fabian and Gideon. I’ve at least got a family middle name - Bilius was my great-uncle. A lot of the older names aren’t terribly uncommon. If you look at Harry’s, for example, you’ve got Hadrian Ignotius. Ignotius had been in their family for ages - the Potter line being descended from the Peverells and all, and Hadrian Potter, you can see, was his great-great-grandfather.

“Go on, Hermione, let’s see what you’ve got. Most muggleborns have some sort of wizarding family ties if you go far back enough.” 

Hermione carefully dropped the potion onto the center of the vellum and waited with baited breath as the spidery lettering spread across the page. Then - 

No.

There was no way.

Something had gone terribly wrong.

It had to be wrong. 

There was no way.

No possible way. 

“Hermione? Why does it - ?” 

“I don’t know. There - there has to be some mistake - I must have made some sort of error - I -” 

“If this is a prank, it’s certainly not a funny one.” 

Professor Slughorn bustled over. “Is everything alright with you three?” 

“I - Professor, I think there was something wrong with my potion. I’m - I’m not _her_.” Hermione pointed a trembling finger at the name Cassiopeia Elladora Black Lestrange and the two lines connecting it to Rodolphus Casper Dolohov Lestrange and Bellatrix Anouk Rosier Black. 

“Let me see your potion.” 

Hermione wordlessly handed over her vial. Professor Slughorn looked at it, muttered something under his breath, and hurried to the front of the classroom. 

Hermione watched him go, eyes wide, silently praying for it to be wrong.

“Professor? There is an inconsistency with my family tree.” 

Professor Slughorn looked up from his inspection of Hermione’s potion. “What appears to be the problem?” 

“There’s an inconsistency with the birth and death dates,” Malfoy began. Hermione felt her stomach drop. “Both of my cousins - the ones on the Lestrange side - were murdered by Aurors at the end of the last war. There’s a death date for one and not the other.” 

Professor Slughorn froze. “Which of your cousins passed and which is allegedly still living?” 

“Leo Rabastan Black Lestrange died on 30 October 1981. Our family believed my other cousin, Cassiopeia Elladora Black Lestrange, died on the same day. Only - only this says she is still alive.” 

The color drained from Professor Slughorn’s face. He was saying something, but Hermione’s ears didn’t seem to be working. It couldn’t be. She refused to believe it. It wasn’t possible! She was the daughter of Jack and Helen Granger. She had her dad’s nose, and her mother’s hair. There was no way -- no way in hell she was related to Bellatrix Lestrange. It had to be a prank. It _had_ to. 

“Class, stay here,” Professor Slughorn said distractedly. “I must make a Floo call.” He bustled off. 

“What’s wrong with your family tree?” Harry asked. “I didn’t get a look.” 

“It’s nothing, Harry,” Hermione lied quickly, hastily shoving the scroll in her bag. 

“Nothing at all.” 

Ron gave her a funny look. “Hermione, didn’t your tree say…?”

“ _Nothing_ is wrong with it.”

“If you say so.”

An awkward silence filled the air, broken only by Slughorn’s re-entry. The man had lost all color in his face. “Miss Granger? Professor Dumbledore would like to meet with you immediately. Bring all your things with you.”

“I haven’t cleaned my cauldron…”

“Someone else will do it. Go on.” 

Hermione buttoned her book bag and slung it over her shoulder before hurrying out of the Potions classroom. Mutters filled the air, then the door slammed shut behind her, silencing them. Hermione climbed staircase after staircase, mind still numb. She’d seen the words. As much as she wanted to tell herself it was false, magic didn’t lie. 

Somehow, she reached the gargoyle. She stared at it blankly. In her shock, she’d forgotten to ask Slughorn what the password was. Mentally berating her own stupidity, Hermione debated on whether it was better to wait outside the gargoyle or to go all the way back down to the dungeons to ask Slughorn how to get in. 

“Blood Lolly,” drawled a voice behind her. 

Hermione jumped. “Professor Snape!”

“If I am not mistaken, Professor Dumbledore wishes to speak with you,” Snape sneered. “You would be wise to expedite your progress up the stairs.”

“Yes, of course, thank you for opening the gargoyle, sir.” 

Hermione set about climbing the stairs, and was surprised to hear another set of footsteps behind her.

“Professor Snape? Do you have a meeting with Professor Dumbledore as well?”

“Unfortunately,” the man quipped. 

He offered no further information, leaving Hermione to trudge the rest of the way up the stairs in relative silence. At long last, she reached a small landing with a wooden door and a phoenix shaped knocker. 

She raised her hand to knock.

“Come in, Miss Granger, Professor Snape.”

Feeling more confused -- surely, this meeting was about her potion, and why would Professor Snape even be involved -- Hermione pushed open the door and entered the room. 

“Please, take a seat,” Dumbledore said, gesturing to a pair of squashy armchairs. 

Hermione gratefully did.

“Severus, I assume you already know what this meeting is about?”

“Indeed. There was a good reason I took Abstammung’s Ancestry Potion off the curriculum. You would have been wise to heed my words.” 

“In another life, perhaps I would have. Alas, each and every thing is fickle, and we cannot control all we touch, eh? Sherbet lemon, either of you?”

“No thank you,” Hermione said. Years of living with dentists had conditioned her to stay away from sugar. 

“Tea, then?”

“That would be excellent, thank you, Professor,” Hermione said. 

Moments later a full tea service materialized on Dumbledore’s desk. “Sugar? Milk?”

“Just black, thank you.”

Dumbledore passed Hermione a steaming mug, and she immediately wrapped her hands around it, letting the warmth seep into her fingers. 

“Now, to get on with business,” Dumbledore said merrily after pouring more than a healthy amount of sugar into his mug. “Miss Granger, if you could pull out your family tree?”

“Do I have to?” Hermione blurted out. “Sorry, sir. I just -- it’s incorrect, isn’t it?”

Dumbledore smiled gently. “I’m afraid it is correct.”

The floor seemed to drop out from beneath her feet. This had been her last hope. Her only hope. “What?”

“You are the daughter of Bellatrix and Rodolphus Lestrange,” Dumbledore said calmly. “If you could pull out the family tree?”

Reluctantly, Hermione reached into her bag, pulled out the vellum and handed it to Dumbledore. “Ah, yes, of course. Severus, if you could explain?” 

The former potions master scowled. “Me, Albus?”

“You know the story best.”

Snape sighed. “Judging by your shock, Miss Granger, I assume your parents never told you you were adopted?”

Hermione mutely shook her head. 

“Excellent.”

Hermione frowned. “Excellent, sir? I don’t see how --”

“It means the charms are still holding,” Snape said, cutting her off. “Which is excellent, unless, of course, you want the Dark Lord to find you immediately.”

Hermione paled. “N-no, not at all.”

“Then you will heed my next words with the utmost care. You are, without a doubt, the daughter of Bellatrix and Rodolphus Lestrange. For one, the magic governing the family tree is accurate. For a second reason, I am the one who hid you.”

Hermione opened her mouth to ask a question, but Snape stilled her with a hand. 

“Questions can be asked when I am finished. It was late October,” he began tonelessly, “when Bellatrix Lestrange knocked on my front door. Aurors had just ransacked the ancestral manse, leaving your younger brother dead. You escaped by an extraordinary feat of accidental magic. She brought you to me, asking me to take care of you for the rest of the war and wipe you from her memory. She planned to take down the Aurors who killed her child, and knew it would be a suicide mission. Just a day later, Potter defeated the Dark Lord. I immediately started a contingency plan. The Ministry was rounding up Death Eaters, and Azkaban was the best case scenario. As the daughter of the Lestranges, your situation would have been dire. 

“For once, luck was in my favor. I’d just made a major breakthrough in a long-term Polyjuice potion derivative. While it wasn’t as all encompassing as the original potion, it lasted for years, rather than hours, and the fewer features it altered, the longer it lasted. I found a convenient pair of muggles, extrapolated the formula through several Arithmancy matrices to determine the maximum efficacy, made the necessary changes, then left you with them after placing several false memories to ensure they believed you were their daughter.”

Hermione’s brain whirled. “What?”

“You were paying attention, I hope?”

“Yes, I was, it's just…” Hermione trailed off, desperately searching for words. 

“It’s a lot of information to process,” Dumbledore said kindly. 

Hermione nodded. “I don’t know what to even think…” 

“Don’t,” Snape said sharply.

Hermione stared at him. “Excuse me, sir?” 

“Don’t think, Miss Granger. It’s a dangerous pastime, afterall.” 

“Severus!” Dumbledore chided. “Be charitable!”

Hermione wasn’t listening. “The potion…” she started, memories of brewing Polyjuice

running through her mind, “its effects will eventually reverse.”

“Correct.”

“When?”

Snape shrugged, somehow making the gesture deliberate. “It should have lasted until you were eighteen. Your activities with the time turner in third year, however, mean it will end sooner.” 

Hermione swallowed. “How long will the transformation take?”

“Two weeks to a month. Unlike original Polyjuice, the change is slow at first, and quickens at the end.” 

Hermione mentally counted the days. She’d spent third year judiciously using a Time Turner, which made her approximately two months older than she should be. “It’ll happen sometime over the summer..” 

“Yes.”

Hermione bit her lip. She had a feeling she wasn’t going to like the answer to her next question. “What am I going to do? Is there any way to prevent the transformation?” 

“The change cannot be prevented,” Snape said, avoiding her first question.

“What am I going to do? Sir?” 

Dumbledore sighed. “Miss Granger, how much do you know about the current war effort?”

Hermione frowned. What in Merlin’s name did the war effort have to do with anything? “I think I know about as much as anyone else, sir. A bit more, perhaps. I know about the Order of the Phoenix, of course, but Mrs. Weasley wouldn’t let any of us sit in on the meetings, so I don’t know any specifics.” 

“How much do you know about the Death Eaters?”

Hermione shivered at the name. “They serve You-Know-Who -- all the Lestranges are involved, the Malfoys, I believe, Dolohov, Yaxley -- I remember fighting them, back in the Department of Mysteries…” 

“To put it bluntly, you can imagine what would happen if the Death Eaters found out that Hermione Granger’s true identity?”

Cold fingers ran their way down Hermione’s spine. She’d be kidnapped -- or worse, killed. She tried to speak but could only manage a nod. 

“As I thought. We must work to ensure that the identities of Cassiopeia Lestrange and Hermione Granger remain separate.”

“How?” Hermione blurted, unable to stop herself.

Dumbledore tilted his head, sadness reflecting in his eyes. “Hermione Granger must die.”

Heat sparked through Hermione. “You’re going to kill me?” she demanded, formalities forgotten as adrenaline pumped through her, heart pounding.

“Forgive my phrasing. _Hermione Granger_ must die, not Cassiopeia Lestrange.” 

Hermione’s heart thudded. “I’m going to become _her_ ,” she said blankly.

“Yes.”

Hermione sank deeper into her chair as adrenaline left her. “I -- I don’t know if I can.”

“Are you familiar with Occlumency?” 

Hermione nodded. She’d attempted to help Harry learn the art of shielding his mind back in fifth year, but he hadn’t wanted to listen. “I know the theory of it.” 

“You will need to learn it, and learn it perfectly.” 

Hermione nodded again, desperately grasping at straws. This was something she could learn. Something concrete she could study. 

“This will be absolutely necessary if you are to continue with the plan I devised,” Dumbledore continued, suddenly stern. “Miss Granger, you are of age. Your true identity will afford you a spot high in Lord Voldemort’s ranks, and make you privy to otherwise classified information.” Dumbledore paused, either for dramatic effect or to merely gather his thoughts. Hermione couldn’t tell. “The intelligence you receive could be of the utmost importance to the Order...if you are willing to join.” 

Hermione’s brain stuttered. “You want me to join the Order?”

Dumbledore twinkled. “If you wish.”

Something clicked in her head, and the analytical side of her mind whirred into action. It was quite plausible that Dumbledore was trying to manipulate her, to push her into agreeing with him. It wasn’t a secret that You-Know-Who was gaining ground far faster than the Order would have liked, and Dumbledore clearly wasn’t well -- the blackened hand could only be curse damage, and he’d had it since the beginning of the year. There was no way of knowing how fast it spread, or if Dumbledore was grievously ill or not. Regardless of Dumbledore’s health, the espionage business seemed rather dodgy at best. 

Unfortunately, it seemed to be her only option. 

Hermione chewed on the inside of her cheek, pretending to contemplate the situation. “Is there any other way?” 

“I’m afraid this is the safest choice.” 

“I’ll do it,” Hermione said, feigning confidence she didn’t feel.

The headmaster beamed. “Now, listen, Miss Granger, here’s what you’ll need to do…”


	2. Business As Unusual

_ 17 April 1997 _

Hermione awoke with a groan. 

“You alright there?” Lavender asked, genuine concern evident in her voice. 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Hermione lied. 

“You were out late last night,” Lavender said. “C’mon, you can tell me about it -- I promise I won’t tell Parvati.” 

“It was nothing exciting.”

“You sure there were no boys involved?” Lavender wheedled. 

“Yes.”

“Yes to boys?”

“Yes to no boys involved.” Hermione slid her legs out of bed and eased her way out of the curtains.

“Hermione...are you sure you’re okay?”

Hermione resisted the urge to throttle her roommate. Lavender just had to develop a conscience at the most inconvenient moment. “I’m fine, Lavender.” 

“You look terrible.”

“Thanks.” 

“No, really...you’ve got these huge circles under your eyes. Did you even sleep last night?”

“Could you just lay off? I’ve got to get ready for class.” 

“If you insist. Although, I know a really easy charm…”

“It’s fine.”

To Hermione’s great relief, Lavender flounced off, leaving her to shuffle to the washroom. Peering into the mirror, Hermione grimaced. Lavender hadn’t been exaggerating -- she really did look awful. The dark circles spoke of a lack of sleep, and her skin had a dingy, almost grayish cast to it. Hermione was normally quite pale, but today she looked ill. 

She sat down heavily on the toilet lid. It was too much. It was all just too much. To find out her parents weren’t her birth parents was one thing. To find out her biological parents were Bellatrix and Rodolphus Lestrange was another -- the only worse parent she could think of would be You-Know-Who himself. 

The only aspect of it that made it ever so slightly better was that her parents had been heavily Confunded. At least  _ they _ hadn’t lied to her. 

Hermione stood up slowly and faced the mirror, scrutinizing her features. She’d always been told she had her father’s curls and her mother’s nose. That wouldn’t be the case any more. Hermione closed her eyes, racking her brain for any idea of what Bellatrix and Rodolphus Lestrange looked like. The only picture that came to mind was one of Bellatrix screaming, spittle flying, and wild curls matted into a rat’s nest. 

Hermione shuddered. While she didn’t consider herself to be drop-dead gorgeous, she could manage mildly attractive when equipped with a bottle of Sleekeazy and a bag of makeup. The Yule Ball was a testament of that. 

Sighing, Hermione grabbed her hair brush. Technically, it wasn’t a witch’s features that defined her, but rather her personality and skill. Hermione tried to tell herself that every day, and it was only getting harder. Lavender’s snide comments didn’t help. 

Hermione pulled her hair tightly into a bun and splashed water on her face before judiciously brushing and flossing her teeth. She squared her shoulders. It was going to be a long day, and nothing would make it easier. 

“Mornin’ ‘Ermione,” Ron said through a mouthful of toast as she slid onto the bench next to him. 

“Hello, Ronald.” Hermione mechanically reached for the marmalade and spread a generous portion on her toast. 

“Blimey, you look awful.”

“Thanks.”

Ron threw his hands up in surrender. “I didn’t mean it like that! You just look like you didn’t sleep, y’know?”

Hermione didn’t respond. 

“Is it about the family tree thing? Look, being related to the Dagworths really isn’t that 

bad. It was what, six generations ago?”

Hermione did a double take. The Dagworths. Right. That was the cover story Dumbledore had established for her, since the line had since died out and there’d be no one to check too closely. Ron and Slughorn had been the only ones besides Snape and Dumbledore to see her family tree, and the two had quickly been Obliviated. “Yeah. Something like that.” 

“You shouldn’t --”

“Ron, lay off, alright?” Hermione snapped. “Just leave me alone.” 

Ron looked taken aback, and for a second, Hermione felt bad. It wasn’t Ron’s fault he had the emotional range of a teaspoon, and also didn’t know what was going on. But, then again -- Hermione savagely bit into her toast -- having a convenient person to take her anger out on was quite nice. 

The rest of the day passed by in a blur. Ron must have talked to Harry about her sour mood, because he didn’t try to talk to her either. It was both a blessing and a curse -- all she wanted was a shoulder to cry on, but at the same time she couldn’t cry since they didn’t know the truth. Hermione had never felt so alone. The beginning of first year had been bad enough, with the lack of friends, and now that she had them, she’d become stupidly dependent. With a jolt, she realized that would soon end, in the course of several weeks, all because Hermione Granger had to die. 

Her mind drifted back to the previous night’s conversation. 

_ “Now listen, Miss Granger,” Dumbledore had begun seriously. “Here’s what you’ll need to do. At the beginning of the summer holiday, we will need to fake the death of Hermione Granger. Do not worry about the logistics -- I will take care of them, and no harm will come to you personally. Along with Professor Snape, you will time-travel back to the beginning of the term.” _

_ “Professor Snape?” she’d blurted before she’d had time to think. “Why Professor Snape?” _

_ “Severus? Care to explain?” _

_ A sour expression crossed his face. “I came into possession of the Prince ancestral manse at the beginning of this year after the passing of my grandmother,” he bit out. “I also am one of the few individuals qualified to teach you Occlumency, Dark Arts, and the inner workings of the Dark Lord’s order.”  _

_ Hermione frowned. “How will we time-travel to the start of term? I thought time turners could only go back a couple hours.”  _

_ Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled. “Let’s just say I have made a few modifications. Now, as Professor Snape mentioned, he will teach you Occlumency, as well as some less than savory spells you would have learned if you were raised as the daughter of the Lestranges. You will only have a matter of months to prepare yourself, as once your transformation is complete, Professor Snape will need to bring you before the Dark Lord. You must ready yourself for this,” he said, suddenly serious. “I will not lie to you and say it will be an easy or even pleasant experience, but you will be able to provide critical information and leverage for the war effort.”  _

_ “What happens next?”  _

_ Dumbledore shrugged. “That depends on many different factors. I would imagine you will attend your final year at Hogwarts. You will be resorted, of course, and it would behoove you to be in Slytherin. Ravenclaw, if you must, as that would be believable for a girl raised mostly in solitude surrounded by books, but both the Blacks and the Lestranges have a tendency to sort into Slytherin.” _

_ “I was offered Ravenclaw and Slytherin,” Hermione had mumbled.  _

_ Dumbledore looked taken aback. “How interesting. If I may inquire, why did you choose Gryffindor?”  _

_ Hermione studied the floor. “It’s ironic, now that I think of it,” she said slowly. “I was too much of a coward to embrace myself, and yet I wanted to be brave.” _

_ Dumbledore nodded thoughtfully. “You shouldn’t have too much difficulty, then. You know,” he began pensively, “sometimes I think we sort too soon, don’t you think, Severus?”  _

_ “It isn’t my place to speculate,” Snape sneered. “And if we are quite done discussing the inner workings of Miss Granger’s psyche, perhaps we could return to the topic at hand?”  _

_ “Certainly. Essentially, Miss Granger, your job will be to integrate yourself as fully as possible with Voldemort’s followers. You will be subject to great criticism, but you must persevere. Do you understand?” _

_ “Yes, sir.” _

_ “Do you have any questions?” _

_ Hermione’s head spun. Of course she had questions. Hundreds of them, coursing through her mind -- not that she could actually ask them. “No, sir, not at the moment.” _

_ “Excellent. If you have any queries before the end of term, do not hesitate to ask Professor Snape or myself. Now, the time is late, and you best be back to your dorm.” _

_ Hermione exited the office, all too aware of the hushed conversation that started between the two professors as she closed the door. _

* * *

_ 12 June 1997 _

_ MUGGLE MENACE -- HOGWARTS STUDENT KILLED BY ROGUE VEHICLE _

_ by Alfred Schriftsteller  _

_ While the return of students for the summer holidays is a joyous occasion for many families, one family is not having a pleasant start to their holiday. Hogwarts prefect Hermione Granger (Gryffindor, Class of 1998) was crossing the car park just outside of King’s Cross station to meet her parents when she was hit by a stray muggle vehicle. The muggle allegedly didn’t see Granger walking until the vehicle made contact.  _

_ Granger is survived by her muggle parents, Jack and Helen Granger. Her death is most certainly tragic. Her parents will hold a private memorial service for her in the muggle world.  _

_ Granger’s unfortunate demise prompts an interesting discussion among the leaders of today: just how dangerous are muggles, and how can we ensure they don’t carelessly murder our kind again? _

* * *

_ 13 June 1997 _

Hermione stretched, then snuggled deeper into her blankets. The last forty-eight hours had been the longest ones in her existence, and all she wanted to do was retreat back into the warm wings of sleep. Unfortunately, that wasn’t a possibility. She’d be leaving the relative safety of Hogwarts for a yet-to-be disclosed location along with Professor Snape and a Time-Turner, and Hermione wasn’t looking forward to it in the slightest. 

Sighing, she rolled out of bed and dressed in a nondescript navy robe before pulling her hair back and glancing in the mirror. Hermione frowned, then released her hair and stared in the mirror. Either her eyes were playing tricks on her, which wouldn’t be surprising, or her hair was turning darker. Brushing the disturbing thought to the side, Hermione made her way into the sitting room of her suite and knocked twice on the table. Moments later, a full English breakfast appeared, and Hermione tucked in hungrily. 

Twenty minutes later, Hermione finished her breakfast, and curled up on the couch to read. She’d been provided with a number of new books to help her assimilate into pureblood society, and to be quite frank, they were some of the most dull books she’d ever read, although they did provide a rather interesting view on the developments of social niceties. Hermione was still trying to decide if  _ The Manners of Polite Society _ or  _ The Essential Handbook on Etiquette _ was more boring when a knock sounded at her door. 

“Come in!” 

The door swung open, revealing Professor Dumbledore and Professor Snape. Hermione’s stomach twitched. Professor Dumbledore had warned her about the adverse physical effects of time-travel, and she certainly wasn’t looking forward to the headaches or the nausea caused by extensive time-turning. 

“Good morning, Miss Granger!” Professor Dumbledore said jovially. “Are you ready?”

Feeling decidedly un-ready, Hermione nodded. “I just need to stow these books in my trunk.” 

Professor Dumbledore beamed. “Excellent!” 

Hermione hastily showed the remaining books away and levitated her trunk. “I’m ready,” she lied. 

“Are you sure you have everything?”

Hermione nodded. Crookshanks would be remaining with her parents, and while her heart ached to do it, it was necessary. Cassiopeia Lestrange wouldn’t have Hermione Granger’s cat. 

“You will be turning back in the Room of Requirement,” Professor Dumbledore said as they walked. “While I have extensively theorized the physical repercussions of turning back more than a few hours in time, the exact effects are unknown. The Room of Requirement will best be able to anticipate and provide for your needs. I have provided Professor Snape with a Portkey that will allow both of you to leave Hogwarts from the Room of Requirement and travel directly to the Prince ancestral manse. Do not go out in public unless it’s an absolute emergency, and remember, if you do, you must not be seen.” 

“Yes, sir, I understand.” 

They stopped in front of the portrait of Barnabas the Barmy. Professor Dumbledore looked at them seriously. “Best of luck to both of you.” With that, he turned, and left in a swirl of magenta robes. 

Professor Snape paced in front of the blank stretch of wall three times, and a door appeared. Hermione wordlessly followed him in. It was a small space, scarcely larger than three meters by three meters, with a soft floor. Professor Snape looked at her. “So you are aware, Miss Granger, we are likely to become physically ill after turning back. It will be a natural reaction to unnatural forces on our bodies. There is no shame in it. Once we have recovered, we will portkey to the manse. Do you understand?”

“Yes sir.” 

“Shrink your trunk, and place it in your pocket.”

Hermione did so. 

“Are you ready?”

Hermione took a deep breath. “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be, sir.” 

Professor Snape withdrew a Time Turner from his robes pocket. It was similar to the one she’d used during her third year, but this one had clearly been modified. Before she had time to study it closely, Professor Snape unclasped the chain. “Stand closer, please.” 

Hermione took a step closer, and Professor Snape looped the chain around both their necks. The hourglass hung between them, and Professor Snape carefully spun it. There was a moment of quiet, then whirl of color and a yank behind her navel not unlike a Portkey. The compression, however, was different, as well as the twisting in her gut. She thought her chest and head were going to explode from it, when, suddenly, it was over. 

Hermione felt her knees collapse, and somehow managed to slither free of the chain. Her stomach roiled, and the lovely English breakfast made a second appearance into a convenient bucket. Her stomach heaved several more times before she regained control of it. Hermione vanished the sick, and sat back on her knees.

“Water?”

Hermione took proffered glass, and tried not to feel thoroughly embarrassed. “Thank you.” She took a sip, rinsing the bile from her mouth, before spitting into the bucket. “Apologizes, sir.”

“You do not need to apologize for being human. Do you think you can stand?” 

Hermione’s legs still felt weak and shaky. “I need a moment.” 

“Take your time.” Professor Snape paced away, and Hermione attempted to collect herself. The nausea was fading, and she rinsed her mouth again, not trusting her stomach to handle any water. After a moment, she stood. 

“I’m ready, sir.”

Professor Snape turned to face her. He looked paler than usual, but otherwise unruffled from the experience. “Are you certain? The Portkey may be upsetting to your system.” 

“I’m certain, sir. I would prefer to get this all over with.”

“Very well.” Professor Snape withdrew a small metal ball from his robes. “Please touch it.”

Hermione laid a finger on the Portkey. 

“ _ Portus. _ ”

The world disappeared in a whirl of sound and color, then they landed with a slight thud. Hermione’s knees nearly buckled, but she managed to stay standing. They were standing in the middle of a moor, and Hermione suddenly realized the term ‘ancestral manse’ was a bit misleading. 

“Welcome,” Professor Snape began, looking as if he’d rather be anywhere else in the world, “to the ancestral home of my late mother’s family.” 

When Professor Snape had mentioned a manse, Hermione had pictured an old clergy house like the ones she’d seen on several primary school field trips. The building before her was a sprawling stone manor spanning several stories. Orange colored stone edged the windows, and several chimneys soared from the roof. A long stone walkway led toward the house, and large stone gargoyles lined the perimeter. 

“Come along, Miss Granger. There will be plenty of time to stare later.”

Hermione followed Professor Snape down the walkway, still trying to take everything in. There was nothing, absolutely nothing in the moorland other than the manor for kilometers other than dead grass and scattered rock formations. 

“Where are we, sir?” 

“Bodmin Moor, near Cornwall.”

Hermione opened her mouth to ask another question, but Professor Snape cut her off. “There will be time for questions later, please get inside.”

Hermione almost asked another question, but there was something in the urgency of his voice that made her stop. She didn’t say anything until they made it past the gargoyles, through the heavy iron bound doors, through red-painted oak doors, and into the entrance. “Sir?” 

“I will explain, Miss Granger, in a moment. If you could take out and enlarge your trunk, there are house elves in the manor, and they will take your belongings to your quarters. Please do not offend them; they are quite content with their work and are treated well.” 

Hermione almost protested, and then thought better of it. 

“Dalpy! Zeesey!” 

Two house elfs popped into existence. They were dressed neatly in black tea towels with a gold coat-of-arms that Hermione couldn’t quite distinguish. 

“This is Cassiopeia Lestrange,” Professor Snape continued. “She will be a guest here for the next few months. Zeesey, bring her trunk to the blue room and prepare the room for her stay. Dalpy, bring my trunk to my room.” 

With a slight pop, the house elves vanished alongside the trunks. Professor Snape turned to face her. “I understand you have questions. If you can wait until we get settled in the lounge, I will entertain them.” 

The lounge, as it turned out, was a beautifully appointed room. Dark wood paneling lined the walls and an intricate parquet pattern graced the floor alongside rich rugs in deep shades of blue, red, and gold. The furniture was equally posh -- an elegant chair and chesterfield set in red and gold stood over the carpet and a low oak table balanced out the room. 

“Please, sit.” 

Hermione perched on the edge of a chair. 

“Ask your questions, Miss Granger. It would be best to get them over and done with.”

“This…” Hermione paused, trying to find an appropriate word. It wasn’t technically a manse, but also she wasn’t sure whether it was a manor or a mansion, and house felt too simple a term. “...dwelling, where is it? What is it, exactly? The architecture style wasn’t anything I recognized...”

“This is the Prince House, it was built by my mother’s ancestors in the late fifteenth century when they came to England from Spain. They were Jewish,” Professor Snape said shortly, “and no longer were permitted in Spain. I am not certain how the family name became Prince, but it was somehow mistranslated from Pereira ben-Kohen. The architecture is a mixture of the Norman architecture common of Britain at the time, and the Moorish architecture of my ancestors’ homeland. We are located, as I mentioned earlier, in the wilds of Bodmin Moor. You should be aware that magic behaves differently in the moor. You will be safe within the walls of the house, and in the garden, but do not wander out onto the moor.”

“Yes, sir.”

“If you are interested in learning more about the house or snoop on my family history, there is a well-appointed library which I will show you tomorrow. There are certain books that you should not touch, as they are cursed to only be touched of those of the ben-Kohen blood, and certain doors in the house that must stay locked. For your own safety, you must follow these rules.” 

“Yes, sir. I thought Jewish inheritance --”

“That is edging on a very personal question, Miss Granger. My family is quite complex, and I will say nothing further on the matter.” 

Hermione could feel a dull flush creeping onto her cheeks. “Sorry, sir.”

“If you have no further questions, I will call a house elf to show you to your quarters. You could clearly use some time to rest and collect your thoughts.” Professor Snape’s face softened unexpectedly. “I understand this is difficult, however, we each must do our part to ensure the Dark Lord does not win the war. A house elf will fetch you when it is time for afternoon tea, and after tea, we will discuss how you will become Cassiopeia Lestrange.”

Hermione could only nod in response. She was suddenly feeling rather overwhelmed, and scarcely registered being walked to her quarters. The house elf vanished with a muffled pop, and Hermione collapsed onto her bed. It was the first time that she cried herself to sleep in the Prince House, but it certainly wouldn’t be the last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Huge thanks to all those who have left kudos or bookmarked this work, and an extra special shout out to those who wrote comments! I truly appreciate them all and it really makes quarantining alone better. Happy quarantine to you all, and best wishes for good health and safety!


	3. Prince House

_ 30 January 1997 _

“Miss Lestrange? The Professor is requesting your presence for afternoon tea.”

Hermione jolted awake, forgetting, for a moment, where she was. “Wha--?”

“The Professor is requesting Miss to attend afternoon tea,” the house elf repeated. Hermione stared, trying to figure out which elf it was. Embarrassingly enough, she hadn’t been paying close attention when they were introduced. “When Miss is ready I be showing you to the parlor.”

Hermione attempted to compose herself. “I’ll be needing a moment, thank you.” 

“You can be calling Zeesey when you is being ready.” Zeesey popped away, and Hermione shuddered. She didn’t think she’d ever get used to the omniscient presence of house elves; it was just too creepy. 

Hermione sat up on the bed, and took a moment to actually take in the room. She could see why it was called the blue room. The large, sweeping drapes hanging behind the bed were a deep shade of royal blue with a subtle floral pattern, and the upper two-thirds of the walls were covered with elegant indigo wallpaper. The bottom third of the wall was painted white, which contrasted beautifully with the dark hardwood floors and bedframe. A large wardrobe stood on one wall next to a door, which presumably led to an ensuite, and a large window seat graced the wall across from the bed. 

It was a very posh room to say the least. Hermione slid off the bed, and padded across the Persian rug to the ensuite’s door. Her jaw practically dropped. A gorgeous green and blue mosaic tile covered the floor, and the tub was an enormous stone thing sunk into the floor. Feeling rather spoiled, Hermione splashed water onto her face, and dried it with one of the fluffy white towels before walking back into her room. 

“Zeesey?” 

The house elf popped back into existence.

“Yes, Miss?”

“I’m ready for tea.”

Zeesey nodded once. “Miss can be following Zeesey.” 

Hermione followed Zeesey out of her room, down a long hallway full of somber portraits, and down a grand flight of stairs. Several turns later, they arrived at the lounge, where Professor Snape was waiting alongside a tea service. 

“Take a seat, Miss Granger.” 

Hermione obediently sat, attempting to feel comfortable on the posh furniture. 

“Tea?”

“Yes, please, sir. Lemon and one lump, please.”

Professor Snape efficiently stirred the tea, and passed it to her. Hermione took a sip, and immediately began to feel better. 

“Help yourself to any sandwiches or scones you would like.”

Hermione filled her plate with sandwiches. The cucumbers were delightfully crisp. 

“Now,” Professor Snape began after a moment. “You have a challenging task before you, and a mere three months to accomplish it.”

“Three months?” Hermione asked before she could stop herself, “I thought my death was faked in June.”

“You may remember that your family tree was revealed in April,” Professor Snape asserted smoothly. “Mr. Malfoy could not be Oblivated after the event, so alternative measures were taken to ensure his silence. I cannot be certain, however, how effective those measures turned out to be.” 

“Why?”

“The Headmaster decided it would be prudent if I recused myself from such matters for as long as possible.”

Hermione opened her mouth to ask another question -- she just couldn’t understand the Headmaster would make such a choice -- but Professor Snape continued speaking before she could get a word in edgewise. 

“It is possible, of course, that we have more than three months; however, I would rather set an ambitious schedule and be prepared early than make rash assumptions. If you persist with asking questions,” Professor Snape continued, “I may lose my mind. Desist. You may ask your questions when I am finished speaking.” 

Hermione bit the inside of her lip, feeling rather chastised. 

“As I was saying, we have approximately three months to turn you into a daughter that Bellatrix Lestrange would be proud of -- you must become the type of person who can seamlessly mingle in the uppermost circles of society and hold her own against the Dark Lord’s finest. While simple to say, this poses a challenge not only with concealing your previous identity of Hermione Granger, but also learning years of knowledge in a matter of months. I previously mentioned that Occlumency -- the psychic art of shielding one’s mind -- will be crucial to maintaining your identity.

“You will start learning Occlumency immediately. Three months is scarcely enough time to learn the basics, even for a dedicated student. In addition to Occlumency, you will need to learn to put the lessons of your etiquette books into practice, and enrich your academic knowledge beyond what is taught at Hogwarts.”

“What do you mean by that, sir?” Hermione asked before she could stop herself. 

Professor Snape smiled. It was not a nice smile. “The Dark Arts, of course.” 

Hermione shuddered. “The Dark Arts, sir?”

“The Death Eaters did not receive such a feared reputation merely from being racist bigots with a penchant for violence. While that description may encompass some of the lower level lackeys, the Dark Lord’s Inner Circle is steeped in the Dark Arts. There is a reason, after all, why the Dark Mark and the mention of Death Eaters inspires fear.” 

Hermione could feel the hair raising on the back of her neck, and wrapped both hands around her tea mug for comfort.

“The Dark Arts are wide, varied, and ever changing,” Professor Snape continued. “They are not, as your Defense class purports, restricted to merely creatures and spells. Rather, they encompass every discipline we teach at Hogwarts as well as many we do not teach. Each of the Inner Circle had his or her own specialty, and each of us were selected for our skill in a particular area.”

The words ‘each of us’ rang hollowly in Hermione’s mind. She’d known, of course, that Professor Snape had been a former Death Eater, but to hear that he’d been in the You-Know-Who’s Inner Circle was unsettling.

“Who else was in the Inner Circle?” Hermione heard herself ask. 

Professor Snape smiled that horrible smile again. “Your parents, of course,” he began, ignoring Hermione’s wince. “Bellatrix and Rodolphus were among the Dark Lord’s most ardent supporters, alongside your uncle --” Hermione winced again “-- Rabastan Lestrange. The Malfoys were among the Dark Lord’s largest financial backers, along with Thoros Nott. Other members of the Inner Circle...Walden MacNair. Cadmus Avery. Antonin Dolohov. Robert Goyle. Christina Yaxley. Augustus Rookwood. And, of course, myself.” 

“What was your speciality?”

“Potions and Spell Creation. I also was incredibly skilled in the magics of the mind.”

“What about the Lestranges, sir?”

“Bellatrix’s specialty was offensive spells. Rodolphus and Rabastan’s talent was in Transfiguration.”

“And the rest of them?” Hermione ventured.

“Information for another time. Presently, we must concern ourselves with how to turn Hermione Granger into Cassiopeia Lestrange. You must, even in the confines of your own mind, begin to think of yourself as Cassiopeia Lestrange rather than Hermione Granger. Additionally, you must purge your wardrobe of any remaining Muggle clothing. I should never see you wear a pair of denims again.”

Hermione thought it was quite rich for Professor Snape to lecture her on clothing giving his general attire.

“You must learn to be comfortable wearing robes,” Professor Snape continued, “And give no reason for anyone to doubt you spent your entire life wearing them. How much of the etiquette books have you been able to read?”

“Most of them. I wouldn’t say I have them all perfectly memorized, but I am familiar with the content.”

Professor Snape nodded brusquely. “You will need to learn their contents by rote.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You also must become familiar with the contents of this book,” Professor Snape paused, and withdrew a small black tome from the depths of his robes. The cover was blank, except for a faded, stylized moon etched in silver. “This is an Occlumency primer, one of the few in existence. I am certain I do not need to tell you to be careful with it.”

Hermione took the book. “I will be very careful, sir.”

“You will need to learn the theory on your own first, then we will begin to delicately put theory into practice. Learning Occlumency can be a painful experience,” Professor Snape warned, “but mastering the art will save your life.” 

“Understood, sir.” 

“Now that we have initial logistics settled, I will give you a brief tour of the house.” Professor Snape fixed her in his gaze. “The rules I set down are not to be broken. My ancestors built the Prince House using the old family magics of the Ben-Kohen tribe. As you saw at Hogwarts, magical buildings tend to develop a certain character as time progresses, and while the Prince House is not nearly as old as Hogwarts, it still is not safe. You also must not, under any circumstance, venture onto the moor. Will you give me your word?”

“Yes, sir.”

“If you break your word, the consequences may be permanent. Certain rooms in this house are capable of delivering far more damage then I.” 

Hermione stared as the weight of Professor Snape’s words sunk in. “What do you mean? How?” she blurted.

“As I mentioned, old Ben-Kohen magic was used to construct this house. Many of these magics are not kind to those not of their blood. If you wish to learn more, there are ample books in the library. Follow me.”

Mind still reeling, Hermione followed Professor Snape out of the lounge. “This is the grand hall,” Professor Snape began, “And off the grand hall hall we have the conservatory, which is an excellent way to feel as if you are outdoors; a gentleman's morning room; a ladies’s morning room; the library, and the gallery, which is connected to the ballroom that is never used. Out of these rooms, you must not enter the gentleman’s morning room or attempt to go into the lower levels of the house. There are several nasty blood wards attached to both.

“You are welcome to use the ladies’s morning room as a study space; however, I feel the library is a more appropriate venue. Follow me.” 

Hermione did as she was bid, eyes roving around. The architecture was simply stunning, with its mixture of dark wood paneling and colorful mosaic tiles. Portraits once again lined the halls, frames swathed with rich fabric. They all seemed to be staring down at Hermione in disapproval. 

“This,” Professor Snape said, interrupting her musings as he opened a heavy wooden door, “is the library.”

Hermione followed him in, and her jaw dropped. The library was an expansive room, spanning two floors. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves in darkest mahogany covered each wall, and daylight streamed from arched windows on the second floor. Several ancient tomes lay on their own small tables, and Hermione could see the distinct sheen of preservation charms covering them. Low armchairs, footstools, and tables were scattered about the room, and Hermione couldn’t wait to start exploring. 

“It’s beautiful,” Hermione murmured. 

“It is a rather well-appointed room,” Professor Snape conceded, looking rather smug. “Most of the books are safe for you to touch. If you find yourself with a strong aversion to a particular volume, kindly overcome your Gryffindorish urge for bravery and stay away from the book. If you would like to read any of the ancient books on the table, let me know, and I will instruct on the protocol for handling them. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.” Hermione wasn’t sure how she’d ever leave the room. “What’s that on the wall?” she asked, gesturing towards a stylized tree on the far wall. 

Professor Snape was silent for a moment. “That is the family tree. It is irrelevant to our conversation.” 

Hermione could feel herself blushing. “Sorry, sir.” 

“There is more of the house to see,” Professor Snape said brusquely. “Come along.” 

Hermione followed him. Each room of the Prince House was at least as beautiful as the last, and Hermione almost felt like it wouldn’t be too horrible to live there. 

“Lastly, this is the second floor balcony. You must not go on the balcony between sunset and sunrise, and you must not, under any circumstances, venture onto Bodmin Moor. If you do, I can promise you will pay with your life. I should not need to remind you, Miss Lestrange, that I do not make promises that I cannot keep.”

“I understand, sir,” Hermione said solemnly. “Must we really start with the ‘Miss Lestrange’ bit now?”

Professor Snape fixed her in his gaze, and Hermione felt like a bug under a magnifying glass. “Did I fail to impress upon you earlier how important it is to maintain your new identity? There are few aspects more crucial than understanding, in the depths of your own mind, that you are not Hermione Granger anymore. You are Cassiopeia Lestrange, and this is a truth you must come to terms with quickly. I do not have the time or patience to coddle you, Miss Lestrange. I will grant that this is not a simple task, but it is one that is key to establishing a new sense of self.”

“I --”

“Do not push me on this matter.” Professor Snape’s eyes flashed, and for a moment, Hermione could see the Dark wizard that hid in the depths of his soul. She took a step away from him, back pressed against the stone railing of the balcony. “If you fail to properly assimilate as Cassiopeia Lestrange, my life may be forfeit, and I have a rather nasty habit of wanting to live. You will follow my rules, and you will not question them, understand?”

“Yes. Yes, sir.” 

“Good.”

“Sir?” Hermione ventured after a moment. “May I ask a question?”

“Seeing as you already did, I will permit another.”

“Are nicknames permitted?”

“Nicknames? No, not particularly. Why do you ask?”

“It’s just...I don’t like the name Cassiopeia. It’s so long. And strange.”

Professor Snape smirked. “Need I remind you that your old name was Hermione.” 

Hermione studied her shoes. That was a fair point. 

“You may choose to go by your middle name, if you wish.”

Hermione made a face. She was pretty sure Elladora was a worse name than Cassiopeia. “I’ll think about it. Thank you, sir...I have another question, actually,” Hermione said as another thought sprung into her mind. “Do you know why Bellatrix chose the names?”

“The Black family has a penchant for naming their children after astral bodies, which is where you get Cassiopeia. Elladora, I believe, is an ancestor of yours, although I would need to consult with a copy of the Sacred 28 to be certain.” 

“The Sacred 28?” 

“The term refers to a book published anonymously in the 1930s of the twenty-eight British families who, allegedly, were still completely pureblood at the time. The book, of course, is utter rubbish, but it does have detailed genealogies on each of the twenty-eight.”

“Why is it rubbish?”

“It was largely politically motivated. Most speculate the author was Cantankerous Nott, a rather odious and racist specimen of a wizard. The majority of the families included were ones that were intermarried with his own, or those of his close political allies. That is why families such as the Weasleys are included despite their muggle-loving tendencies, as they closely intermarried with the Blacks and Malfoys for several generations. The Potters were not included as they didn’t bribe Nott. The Princes and the Goldsteins weren’t included,” Professor Snape added somewhat bitterly, “as anti-Semitism was high at the time, and Jewish wizards, despite being pureblood, were not pure enough by Nott’s standards.” 

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“None of it matters,” Professor Snape said roughly. “It’s in the past, and besides, it wouldn’t have helped me any.”

“Sir?” Hermione asked, but Professor Snape didn’t reply. He was staring out across the barren moor, eyes fixed on the sky. A cold breeze swept across them, and Hermione shivered. 

“We should get inside,” Professor Snape murmured. “The sun will set soon.” 

Hermione shivered again, Professor Snape’s warnings echoing through her mind as she followed him back into the house. 

Professor Snape consulted his pocket watch. “Dinner will be served at half-eight. Spend your time as you will.” 

“Sir!” Hermione called after him. “I have one more question.” 

“I see I cannot stop you. Proceed.”

Hermione took a deep breath. “In Dumbledore’s office, you mentioned that I was under the effects of a modified long-term Polyjuice Potion. One that made me look like Hermione and not like... _ her _ .” Hermione couldn’t quite bring herself to say the name and hated her weakness. “How long will it take for me to revert back?” 

Professor Snape looked pensive. “Quite honestly, I do not know. I would estimate a month. The changes should happen slowly at first, then more quickly as time progresses.” 

“The Polyjuice transformation was rather painful,” Hermione said slowly. “Will there be any pain with this?”

Professor Snape was silent for a moment. “I cannot be certain. The potion I crafted was highly experimental.”

“Do you have any hypotheses?” 

Professor Snape merely looked at her, and Hermione suddenly didn’t want to know the answer. “I fear,” he said softly, “that it may be excruciating.”


	4. Occlumency

_ 31 January 1997 _

Hermione curled up in her window seat, completely engrossed in the titleless Occlumency primer. The text itself was incredibly fascinating, if a bit dense to get through as it was written in early Elizabethan English. It wasn’t the most challenging book she’d attempted to read -- one Christmas break she’d tried reading a treatise on Alchemy written in Middle English, and only recieved a pounding migraine for her troubles. 

With the Occlumency primer, the challenges were different. The author had a great love for extended metaphors which Hermione did not share, and had a habit of constructing run-on sentences spanning several pages. That aside, Hermione had made a good amount of progress through the book. It helped that she had nothing else to do, unless she wanted to read the truly horrible books on Pureblood etiquette. She would have to read them eventually, but, for once, Hermione was more than happy to procrastinate reading a book. 

A house elf popped into existence, and Hermione jumped, nearly dropping her book. The house elf looked at her balefully, as if she was failing to live up to its expectations. “Master Snape is expecting you in the library. Miss Lestrange is to be bringing the book.” The house elf popped out of existence as abruptly as it’d appeared, leaving Hermione staring at the spot on her carpet. She would definitely ask Professor Snape if there was a way to ward her room against house elves; their ability to appear at will was disturbing. 

Hermione took a moment to collect herself, then made her way downstairs to the library, robes swishing in her wake. She’d cleaned her trunk out of the remaining pairs of denims, cozy hooded jumpers, and, much to her embarrassment, her flannel kitty pajamas. Hermione had protested loudly when Professor Snape tried to make her throw away the chunky sweater and Gryffindor scarf that Mrs. Weasley made her. He reluctantly allowed her to store the scarf and sweater, but insisted the rest of the clothes be burned. Hermione had done her best not to tear up when her soft pajamas went up in flames, and had failed miserably. 

What she owned now was her Hogwarts uniform, with the exception of the robe which had been emblazoned with the Gryffindor crest, a navy robe that she’d occasionally worn over jeans and a jumper on the weekends due to its deep pockets, and calf length formal robe and its accompanying skirt and blouse that she’d worn while interviewing for Ministry internships the previous summer. Not that she’d gotten any, of course, but she’d be determined to try. The blatant discrimination against Muggleborns was infuriating, although, she realized with a shock, that didn’t apply to her anymore. 

Sobered by the thought, Hermione entered the library. Professor Snape was settled at a table, several books and rolls of parchment scattered around him. 

“Come sit.”

Hermione did as she was bid. 

Professor Snape looked up from his work, scrutinizing her for a moment. “Is that the only robe you own?”

Hermione resisted the urge to scream. Hadn’t he seen how many of her clothes were burned? “I have one other that I use for interviews. Sir.” 

Professor Snape made a sound of disapproval in his throat. “That will need to be addressed sooner rather than later, although it may pose some interesting complications.” 

“What do you mean by that, sir?” 

“Polyjuice,” Professor Snape said simply. “You cannot Polyjuice into another if you wish to purchase properly fitted garments, and I am uncertain how the standard glamour charms will interact with the modified Polyjuice in your system. I will think about it, and devise a solution within the next few days. You cannot continue to wander about improperly attired.”

Hermione considered pointing out that he was the reason she lacked sufficient clothing, then thought better of it. “Yes, sir.” 

“You may desist with the constant use of ‘sir’. We will be living in close quarters for the next few months, and I simply cannot abide the use of the honorific every other sentence.” Professor Snape paused for a moment, then continued. “Occlumency. How much progress have you made with the book?” 

“Not as much as I would have liked,” Hermione began, “It’s rather dense.”

To her surprise, Professor Snape chuckled darkly. “That it is. However, it is highly informative and the best book on the subject matter unless one wishes to make a dive into Old or Middle English.” 

Hermione shuddered at the thought of deciphering complex metaphors in trainwreck that is Middle English.

“How many chapters did you succeed in understanding?”

“The first three,” Hermione admitted, “I started chapter four, but it was rather difficult to comprehend.”

Professor Snape steepled his fingers. “Based on your understanding of the reading, how would you, without regurgitating the text, define Occlumency?” 

Hermione thought for a moment. “The art of shielding your mind from the invasion of another.”

“An interesting answer. It would be more accurate to say the art of guarding your mind from another. Shielding implies that you are blocking another’s entry entirely while guarding implies that their entry, should it occur, is carefully directed. It is a common, but unfortunate misunderstanding between the Old English words bordhreóða, which translates to shield, and bregoweard, which translates to guard. It is not a difficult distinction, but a mistake made by one imbecilic author that had cascading consequences.”

“Do you know Old English, sir?” Hermione asked, interest throughly piqued. 

Professor Snape grimaced. “Passingly. It is a useful skill, but one that has largely fallen out of practice in today’s society. However, back to our previous topic of conversation, Occlumency is not merely about guarding your mind, but also about gaining a deeper understanding of how you think and process information. This can be as mundane as how you learn in class, and encompass topics as complex as how you handle emotion and store memories.”

“I’m excited to learn it.”

“Good. I am about to speak quite frankly to you, Miss Lestrange. Learning Occlumency requires a great amount of trust in your instructor. It is a challenging and esoteric magical art that holds few, if any parallels to anything you have encountered thus far. It takes years to properly master, and we have approximately three months for you to gain passable knowledge. If you fail, then both of our lives will be forfeit. Is that understood?”

Hermione could feel the color drain from her face. “Yes, sir.”

Professor Snape nodded, and for a moment, he just looked tired. Realization rushed over Hermione like a wave; he was as unprepared for this as she was, only blame would land squarely on his shoulders if anything were to go poorly. She would likely face consequences as well, but nothing as severe as Professor Snape. 

“The first step to learning Occlumency,” Professor Snape began, “Is learning how to properly meditate. Meditation leads to the understanding of your own mind, and you can only begin to master your thoughts when you understand them. We will review several different meditation techniques, both Muggle and magical in origin, until you find one that works well for you. You will need to practice meditating three times a day at minimum; when you wake up, in the middle of the day, and before you sleep. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.” 

“Desist with using ‘sir’. The first type of meditation we will discuss is Vipassana, which falls in the Sayagyi U Ba Khin tradition…”

* * *

_ 2 February 1997 _

Hermione woke with a yawn, debating cuddling back into her blankets for another few minutes of sleep. Discipline quickly got the better of her, and she sat up in bed, stretching before grabbing a rolled sheet of parchment that hadn’t been on her bedside table before she slept. Hermione carefully unfurled it, and read. 

_ Miss Lestrange -  _

_ Meet me in the lounge once you have consumed breakfast. I have determined means to hide your countenance and procure a proper wardrobe.  _

_ S.S.  _

Hermione winced at the ‘Miss Lestrange’ -- it was far too weird to think of herself as that -- and called for a house elf. In short order, she had a piping hot fryup waiting for her. Thankfully, it was a smaller portion than what the elves initially insisted on bringing; it had taken a lot of arguing to convince the elves that no, she didn’t need to eat a full English breakfast each day. 

Hermione made quick work of the fryup, got dressed, and made her way down to the lounge where Professor Snape was nursing a cup of black coffee. 

“Good morning, Professor.” 

“Good morning, Miss Lestrange. Are you ready?”

“Yes. Where, exactly, are we going?”

Professor Snape downed the remainder of his coffee. “Carn Euny. A small, isolated magical community towards the coast.”

“I’ve never heard of it.”

“That is unsurprising, most have not. Muggles see only the ruins of an old Cornish village; the wizarding sector is hidden through an underground tunnel. It is one of the few remnants of an old wizarding heritage.” 

“It sounds very interesting.”

“Indeed it is. Stand here, please,” he said, gesturing to the open space by the table. “I will need to apply a glamour charm to you and I will ingest Polyjuice before our excursion. It will not do for either of us to be recognized. Hold still, this may feel odd.” Professor Snape flicked his wand in a complex pattern, and Hermione could feel something settle on her face, almost like a clay mask that had been left to harden for a few minutes too long. 

“It does feel odd,” Hermione murmured. 

“So long as it is not painful, it does not matter.” Professor Snape pulled a flask out of his pocket and eyed it in distaste. 

“Sir?” Hermione ventured. “Why use Polyjuice instead of a glamour charm?”

“Glamour charms are detectable, but not uncommon on teenage girls,” Professor Snape said, uncorking the flask. “On a person such as myself, it would be suspicious.” 

He took a measured gulp, and immediately his skin began to bubble into that of a tall, blue-eyed man with ashy blonde hair. Professor Snape rolled his shoulders and neck before straightening up. “Now that that particular bit of unpleasantness is over, take my arm. We will be Apparating.” 

Hermione grasped the proffered forearm, and after the brief twist and compression of Apparition, they were out in the Cornish sunlight. Hermione blinked, unused to the light after the dimness of Prince House.

“Come along,” Professor Snape said shortly. “We have a bit of a walk to get to Carn Euny. If anyone asks,” he began, mouth twisting unhappily, “I am John Carne and you are my niece Demelza.” 

“Demelza.”

“It is a common name among wizards here. You also do not need to worry about money; Professor Dumbledore anticipated that you would require new clothing and school supplies.” 

Hermione considered arguing, then thought better of it. They walked in silence for several minutes until low stone walls and grassy mounds became visible. 

“Is that it?” Hermione asked. 

“Yes, although we are headed underground.” Professor Snape led them along an overgrown cobblestone path and down a flight of rough stone stairs. “Mind your head,” he said, nearly bent double to fit through the passage at the bottom. “The ceiling is quite low.”

Hermione carefully followed him down the short passage and into a surprisingly large cavern. 

“This way,” he said, gesturing towards a tall, thin archway large enough for a grown man to walk through upright. “This is the entrance to magical Carn Euny.” 

The passageway stretched at least a hundred meters in front of them, and was gently lit by softly glowing stones. Hermione had to hurry to keep up with Professor Snape’s long strides. The passageway slowly opened up into a larger cavern far larger than the one they left filled with multiple levels of colorful stalls hawking wares. 

“Stay close,” Professor Snape murmured. “Not all the denizens of Carn Euny are human, and not all the humans are kind.” With that, Professor Snape strode into the cavern proper, leaving no time for Hermione to ask questions. She hurried after him, head swiveling around to get a good glimpse at everything. 

Carn Euny was starkly different from Diagon Alley. Diagon was full of set store fronts whereas the stalls of Carn Euny lined the walls of the cavern, some extending back into the walls and others defying the laws of gravity. 

“Cease your gawping, you will have plenty of time to look around aimlessly later. Here,” Professor Snape led her into one of the more established shops bearing a faded sign reading ‘Trevorrow Tailors’. “Ruan Trevorrow is...strange,” Professor Snape warned her quietly. “However, he is an excellent tailor -- far better than anything you would get from Madam Malkin’s or Twilfit and Tattings in Diagon Alley -- and he understands the meaning of discretion. He will know we are not wearing our true faces. Be polite to him.”

“Of course I --”

Professor Snape rang a small silver bell, which echoed hollowly through the shop. Soon after, Hermione could make out footsteps, although they had an odd, shuffling gait. Ruan Trevorrow made his way into the light, and Hermione immediately saw why Professor Snape warned her. 

There was something wrong with Ruan Trevorrow; his shoulders were humped, his arms were slightly too long in proportion to the rest of his body, and his face looked as if it were formed from melting wax. 

“John not Jowan,” Trevorrow said, “You come once again wearing a false face.” 

Professor Snape inclined his head. “I have come once again to seek your custom.”

“Indeed you have. And you have brought another wearing a false face.” Trevorrow stepped closer, throwing the strange texture of his face in starker relief. He cocked his head, and it was then that Hermione noticed his pupils were slit sideways, like a goat’s. A shiver ran down her spine. “My mistake,” Trevorrow continued softly. “This one bears two false faces. Very cunning, John not Jowan.” 

Professor Snape placed his hand protectively on Hermione’s shoulder. “This is Demelza, my niece.” 

Ruan Trevorrow scrutinized her for a moment, and Hermione remained placid, stoutly ignoring the hair standing up on the back of her neck. 

“Greetings, Demelza of the Twice False Face.”

“Greetings, Ruan Trevorrow,” Hermione said quietly, sensing rather than knowing the flow of the words. 

Professor Snape produced a sealed roll of parchment from the depths of his robe. “My niece requires the items on this list and one more besides.” He withdrew a small velvet bag of Galleons. “The payment will be this many Galleons and one Knut more, with the items to be received in four turns of the Earth hence, as experienced by mine own eyes.” 

Trevorrow’s face opened in a wide grin. “You remember the old ways well, John not Jowan. I accept the task and the payment, and you will receive the items in four turns hence.” The parchment and bag of Galleons soared into Trevorrow’s outstretched hands unbidden, and he immediately stored them in the depths of his robes. He clapped his hands twice, and a tape measure emerged from the depths of the shop, and with a flick of his wrist, it began measuring Hermione. 

Within moments, it was done. Trevorrow inclined his head. “It was a pleasure doing business with you, John not Jowan, and you, Demelza of the Twice False Face.”

Hermione inclined her head respectfully. 

“It was a pleasure doing business with you, Ruan Trevorrow.” 

They made their way out of the shop, and Hermione shivered. “Do I not get a say in my own clothes?” she asked indignantly once they were out of the shop, focusing on anything that would distract her from the strange eyes of Ruan Trevorrow.

Professor Snape merely looked at her. “That is what you fixate on after the shop?” he asked in disbelief. “No, you do not. You tell Ruan Trevorrow the items, the payment, and when you will receive them, and he works within those parameters. You will not be disappointed in the results.”

Hermione took a moment to work up her courage. “What is he?”

“He is partially of the Fae,” Professor Snape said quietly. “And that is all I will speak of here. Far too many walls have ears.” 

“But -- the Fae?”

“What of it?”

“It’s not exactly something we learn about at Ho- at school.” 

“Mm. It is a strange topic for many wizards despite the fact that many of them carry Fae blood in their veins.”

“What? Really?”

“Truly. And I will discuss no more of it here.” Professor Snape strode off, leaving Hermione with no choice but to hurry up and follow him, mind swirling with questions.

* * *

_ Later That Day _

Hermione closed her eyes and did her best to steady her breathing. It was becoming easier to focus and center herself, and she found herself becoming more conscious of her thought patterns. She thought it was rather impressive for only a few days’ work, but Professor Snape never seemed pleased. He was utterly relentless in pushing their schedule forward, insisting Hermione master basic Occlumency before beginning to learn anything else. 

Apparently, Occlumency was useful for more than merely gaining deeper self awareness and keeping hostile wizards out of one’s mind. It seemed the more she began to learn of it, the more she realized she didn’t know. The Occlumency primer held many of the answers, but it also raised more questions the more she thought about what she’d read. 

Hermione took another deep breath, and collected her rambling thoughts. There was nothing, only a soft count down from ten in the back of her mind and the faint sound of breathing. Hermione closed her eyes, and allowed her mind to float freely. 

“Good. Open your eyes.”

Hermione opened her eyes. Professor Snape was scrutinizing her as if she were some sort of interesting Potions ingredient.

“Your basic meditation is passable,” Professor Snape said after a moment. “Your next step will be to begin to learn mindfulness meditation; the art of interacting with your thoughts with delicate purpose. This information is found in the latter half of the meditation section of your book. Understood?”

Hermione nodded, wondering if it would be so terrible if he gave her actual praise. “Yes, I understand.”

“Most of your practice refining this will be on your own time; however, we will begin the learning process now. You will begin in a meditative state, and when you feel centered, focus on one memory and open your eyes. I will use Legilimency to view the memory. You must endeavor to stay focused on that memory and that memory only that memory. This will be challenging, as each memory is connected to one, or many others. The initial memory you provide can become an access point for your entire mind. I am certain I do not need to explain why that is extremely hazardous. 

“I will attempt to be mindful of the sanctity of your mind; however, you will be unable to learn if left unchallenged. You should also be aware that a Legilimens does not experience the entirety of your memory. Depending on the skill of the Legilimens, they become aware of anything from impressions of emotion to flashes of insight, to snippets of your memory. Legilimency is not mind reading,” Professor Snape sneered slightly over the term, “Despite what some fools may believe.”

“How good are you at Legilimency?” Hermione dared to ask. 

Professor Snape smiled coldly. “There is a very good reason why I am still alive, and Occlumency and Legilimency play no small role in that.”

“Oh.” 

“Prepare yourself,” Professor Snape said brusquely. 

Hermione closed her eyes, and settled in a slow breathing pattern while counting down from ten. Once she felt centered, she called up a memory; one from when she was small and learning to read beside her father. It seemed innocuous enough, and easy enough to focus on. 

Hermione took a deep breath, then opened her eyes.

Professor Snape stared at her intently. 

“ _ Legilimens _ ,” he whispered, and suddenly there was something in her mind. It was the feeling of someone standing over her shoulder and staring at her. It was a creeping, insidious feeling of something not being right within her own mind. It was the feeling that someone was watching, and that someone  _ knew _ . 

There was a strange sense of duality between staring into Professor Snape’s eyes and simultaneously experiencing impressions of her own memory. Hermione did her best to focus on her thoughts, struggling to maintain the image of her father pointing out words in a book. 

It was a fruitless effort. Her mind darted around wildly, jumping to memories of trying to read books in primary school while the other children jeered to hiding inside her four poster bed in Gryffindor tower to do her Transfiguration homework without being teased for writing an extra foot and a half. 

Just as soon as the sensation began, it retreated, leaving Hermione breathless as if she’d just finished running a long race. She shook her head once to clear it, and briefly closed her eyes before reopening them. Professor Snape looked furious, and for the first time, Hermione had an inkling of why Harry had never talked about his Occlumency sessions. 

“Why is it,” Professor Snape began, voice silky and dangerous, “That you continue to think of yourself as Hermione Granger despite my explicit instructions otherwise?”

Hermione opened her mouth, then closed it. “I - I don’t know, sir.”

Professor Snape fixed her in his gaze. “This is not a game, Miss Lestrange,” he said, voice deadly. “This is your life now. Hermione Jean Granger is dead. Cassiopeia Elladora Lestrange is who remains. You will no longer think of yourself as Hermione, only by Cassiopeia. You may use some puerile nickname if you must, but only inside the confines of your own mind. If you fail to do this, the Dark Lord and your sainted mother will be the least of your worries.” Professor Snape stood, robes swishing around him. “Get out of my sight. I expected better from you. Do not disappoint me again, Miss Lestrange, or you will regret it.”

Professor Snape swept away from their table, and Hermione felt a chill wrap around her heart. She stood on uncertain legs, and hurried out of the library, heart pounding at every step. She felt sick inside her chest, and her lungs felt as if they were inside a vice. Hermione stumbled into her room and onto her bed, curling into a foetal position as she desperately tried to breathe.


	5. Becoming Cassiopeia

_ 6 February 1997 _

The soft pop of house elf Apparition woke Hermione. She suppressed a shudder. As it turned out, there was a way to block house elves from appearing in your room at will; however, it wasn’t something Professor Snape would permit. Hermione stretched and sat up. A large package rested on her window seat. 

Hermione padded across the room and picked up the note on top of the package. 

_ Miss Lestrange --  _

_ Enclosed in the package are the garments created by Ruan Trevorrow. Please ensure you are properly attired today. Meet me in the library when you are ready. _

_ S.S.  _

Hermione gingerly pulled apart the brown paper and twine, pulled out the clothes inside. The robes were far different from the uniform she wore at Hogwarts. Instead of the Hogwarts robe, which oddly reminded Hermione of scholars' robes at Cambridge, the clothes in the package clearly were from another culture. The robes were made of rich, heavy fabrics in deep shades of green, blue, and black. Heavy embroidery adorned the fitted sleeves, and the robes tapered in at the waist. Several dresses lay inside the package as well, made of light fabrics, but they still had a richness about them. 

Hermione kept searching through the clothes. There were plenty of dresses and robes, in different weight fabrics, as well as a heavy winter cloak, but there was a distinct lack of trousers. Hermione sat back on her heels, several clothing items still encased in paper, as she tried to remember if she’d ever seen any of the pureblood girls wear trousers. Now that she thought of it, she’d never seen Lavender or Parvati wear trousers, or Pansy Parkinson and Daphne Greengrass. Fleur Delacour, the lone female Triwizard Champion, had worn full robes every time Hermione saw her, with the exception of the tasks. 

Hermione felt rather stupid for not noticing earlier. Even a lot of the half bloods, like Cho Chang, wore full length robes over loose, flowy trousers. Hermione cursed quietly. How could she have been so blind? It was no wonder she’d been immediately pegged as a muggleborn -- she’d stood out like a crup in a puddle of nifflers. Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose, and tried to ignore the incoming headache. How many cultural nuances had she missed out on, and how could she possibly learn all of them before she went back to Hogwarts as Cassiopeia Lestrange? 

Hermione took a deep breath in a vain attempt to quell her rising panic. Everything was fine. Just fine. It was all fine. 

Once her panic leveled off, Hermione continued rummaging through the package. There were three long nightgowns -- Merlin damn pureblood customs -- and numerous undergarments. Hermione tried desperately, and failed not to blush. The last items in the package, however, quickly took her mind off things. A beautiful set of deep purple dress robes made from an unbelievably soft and floaty silk with delicate silver embroidery lay on top of something that made Hermione gasp. There was a set of two garments, both done in a black supple leather with dragonhide reinforced patches. The top was a cross between a frock coat and a jerkin. It had fitted long sleeves, a high collar, and fell to just above her knees. It was split, dueling style, with open seams running from her hips to the bottom of the top. The second half of the outfit was a pair of trousers, which were surprisingly fitted. She now owned dueling robes.

Hermione took a moment to process everything. Other than Gilderoy Lockhart’s stupid looking set, Viktor was the only non-Auror she knew who owned dueling robes -- and for a good reason. They were fiendishly expensive. 

Hermione set the dueling robes aside and quickly got dressed in a light blue dress with a black robe over it. A new pair of sturdy black boots went on her feet, and Hermione walked into the ensuite to take stock of her outfit. She hadn’t bothered to look in the mirror recently -- she’d been avoiding it, in fact. The constant ache in her bones spoke to the slow reversal of the Polyjuice derivative, and she was secretly terrified to see what it was doing. 

Taking a deep breath, Hermione faced the mirror. She released the breath, not sure whether to feel relieved or disappointed that she looked mostly the same. Unless her mind was playing tricks on her, her hair was darker, and her complexion paler, but other than that she looked the same. Mostly. The robes framed her differently than her usual denims and jumper, and for the first time since the Yule Ball, Hermione felt like she actually looked like a witch. With a flick of her wand, her hair plaited itself, and Hermione headed down to the library for what was certain to be another doomed Occlumency lesson.

After the last failed lesson, Professor Snape had shifted his focus temporarily to what he called ‘other useful skills’. As it turned out, the ‘other useful skills’ turned out to be aggressive, offensive Dark Magic. Much to her disgust, Hermione learned the spells easily. The realization sparked an entire existential crisis that Professor Snape hopefully remained unaware of, and the concerns dominated her mind until she reached the library. 

“Miss Lestrange.” 

“Good morning, Professor Snape.”

“I trust Ruan Trevorrow’s work was satisfactory?”

Hermione nodded. “It’s quite nice.” 

“Indeed.” 

“The other day,” Hermione ventured, “When we were at Carn Euny, you told me you would explain about Ruan Trevorrow.”

“So I did.” 

Hermione made a useless gesture with her hands. “Will you tell me about him, then?”

Professor Snape tilted his head to the side, as if he was listening for something. Then, without warning, his wand slashed through the air. 

Hermione jumped. “What was that for?” 

“To keep others from listening in,” Professor Snape said grimly. “When I told you one does not speak lightly of the Fae, I was quite serious.” 

“It’s not something we learn about at Hogwarts,” Hermione said quietly. 

“No, it is not.” Professor Snape looked pensive. “It is not wise to speak openly about the Fae; doing so invites their attention, which is seldom beneficial. The Fae are divided in the Seelie and Unseelie courts, and from there into the Spring and Summer Courts, and the Autumn and Winter Courts, respectively. There are also Fae who do not belong to a Court -- goblins, hags, and house elves are all examples of these.”

“How does that work?”

Professor Snape shrugged elegantly. “It simply does. Now, more important to our discussion, is relations between wizards and the Fae. Some of them live in ‘our world’, while most prefer to reside in the depths of the Fae realm, which connects to ours in ways I cannot explain or understand. There also are, of course, mixed enclaves, such as Carn Euny.

“The Wizarding and Fae realms used to be far more interconnected than they are today. Elves, hobgoblins, and the like use to freely travel and intermingle amongst humans. You should not be surprised to know that you and many of your classmates carry Fae blood.” 

“Me?” Hermione asked, half horrified.

Professor Snape chuckled darkly. “Lestrange, originally  _ l’étrange _ . Your ancestor, Jehan Pagnon dit l’Étrange, was the first to bear the name. People tend to remember the last thing they heard, and Pagnon dit l’Étrange morphed into Lestrange. He was named appropriately,” Professor Snape continued before Hermione could ask a question. “He was quite clearly of the Fae, and several of his unusual physical characteristics persisted to today.”

“Like what?”

“Eye color,” Professor Snape said shortly. “All those born to the Lestrange family line have the same purple eyes.”

“...anything else?” Hermione asked, trying to figure out just how freakish she’d look. 

“To my knowledge, no.”

“Which other families have Fae blood?” 

“The Malfoys, the Moons, and the Lovegoods, for certain. The Blacks, more distantly than the other three. The Ollivanders. I have suspicions regarding the Burkes, but nothing for certain.” 

“And how well known is all this?”

Professor Snape gave a half shrug. “Well enough, I suppose. You should be aware, however, that it is  _ not _ something to ask about.”

Hermione was taken aback by the force in his voice. “I understand.”

Professor Snape nodded once. “Be certain that you do. Now, if we could focus on the intended lesson for today, you will work to continue to perfect your Occlumency, particularly in the realm of maintaining your concept of self. Have you worked on this?”

In truth, Hermione wasn’t sure what she was supposed to do. “A bit,” she said vaguely.

Professor Snape was silent for a moment. “Did I fail to impress how important this is?” he asked softly. 

“No!” Hermione quickly protested. “I understand why it’s so important. And I have been working on it.” She’d spent countless hours meditating, after all. Surely that’s what Professor Snape meant.

Professor Snape eyed her, and Hermione struggled not to fidget under his gaze. “I will find out very quickly if you did not.”

Hermione swallowed, but maintained eye contact as she marshaled her thoughts.

Professor Snape drew his wand. “ _ Legilimens _ ,” he whispered.

Hermione was accosted by the creeping feeling of someone in her mind. Thousands of insect legs chased over her skin, and it felt as if someone were looming over her shoulder. Hermione pushed away the creeping sensation and turned her focus inwards to her thoughts. Her awareness of the Legilimency probe was somewhere between sight and feeling, and she did her best to nudge it away from thoughts of child-Hermione. It was excruciating, and just when she thought she couldn’t take it anymore, the feeling retreated. 

Professor Snape lowered his wand, face unreadable. The silence stretched, and Hermione opened her mouth to break it when Professor Snape spoke. “You have improved in some aspects,” he began. 

Hermione could feel the tension drain out of her shoulders. 

“And yet,” Professor Snape continued, “you have absolutely failed in the one aspects I requested you work on.” His voice became soft and deadly. “Why is it, despite my request, and despite my warnings, that every single thing about your mind screams Hermione Granger?”

Hermione opened her mouth, then closed it.

“Tell me,” Professor Snape began softly, “When you look in the mirror, who do you see? Cassiopeia Lestrange or Hermione Granger? In the deepest parts of your mind, who are you? Cassiopeia Lestrange or Hermione Granger? What is it about becoming Cassiopeia that you fail to understand?” Professor Snape’s voice hadn’t risen beyond the deadly whisper, but fury etched itself into his face. 

Hermione tried to speak, but found she didn’t have the words. 

“Go on, I’m waiting,” Professor Snape said nastily. “After all, I am likely the one who will take the greatest fall should the truth be discovered. And do you know what that means?” he demanded, emotion edging its way into his voice. “Exquisite torture at the hands of the Dark Lord and your  _ sainted _ mother. Now, go on. I’m waiting.”

Hermione didn’t know what to say. 

“Nothing?” 

Hermione suddenly found herself staring once again down the length of Professor Snape’s wand. 

“ _ LEGILIMENS! _ ”

There were no words to describe the horror of the full strength Legilimency. Power pushed through her mind like some horrible Lovecraftian centipede. Hermione’s head snapped back, and the next thing she knew, she was on the floor. Her head swam in a fog of pain, and the scent of blood filled her nose. 

“Get up.”

Head still swimming, Hermione sat up, and tried to stand before crumpling back onto the floor. 

“Get up, Miss Lestrange.” 

Hermione struggled, but managed to stand. Professor Snape stood before her, face blank and uncaring. “We will repeat this until you understand one fundamental thing: you are Cassiopeia Elladora Lestrange. Do you understand?”

Hermione struggled to pull her thoughts together. 

_ “LEGILIMENS!” _

There was horror, unspeakable horror creeping inside her mind. Hermione tried to escape it, but it was futile. 

_ “LEGILIMENS!” _

Hermione’s mind was screaming. 

_ “LEGILIMENS!” _

Hermione could feel her neck contorting in an effort to escape the Legilimency. Then, finally, and gratefully, she sunk into unconsciousness.

* * *

_ 7 February 1997 _

Overwhelming pain was the first thing she noticed upon waking, and immediately regretted her conscious existence. Her head felt like it was simultaneously being stabbed with an icepick and being run over by a lorry, and her stomach roiled with nausea. She curled in on herself, burrowing deeper in her pillows in a vain effort to avoid the pain when a soft knock sounded at the door.

“Come in,” she said weakly.

Professor Snape made his way into her field of vision. She tried to sit up, and the headache intensified to the point where she could barely see. 

A cool glass was held to her lips and a hand gently supported the back of her head. “Drink.”

She choked down the nasty tasting potion, and almost immediately felt the headache abide. 

“Better?”

She nodded weakly. The pain was still there, but she no longer felt like she was going to vomit. Slowly, the previous afternoon’s memories poured back in. “Was it really necessary?” she asked with as much anger as she could muster.

“You already know that answer.” 

“There really was no other way?”

“No.”

She sank deeper into her pillows as the fight drained out of her. “I wish there was. I feel like I’ve been run over by a herd of hippogriffs.” 

Potions bottles chinked together, and Professor Snape handed one to her. “Drink this.”

“What is it?”

“Another Pain Reliever.” 

She gratefully took the potion, and almost felt functional. “Are you angry at me?” she asked quietly. 

Professor Snape was silent. 

“For not understanding what you meant?” she added. “I tried, I really did. I just didn’t know what you meant.” She could hear herself rambling, and couldn’t summon enough emotion to care. 

Professor Snape looked at her impassively, and anger suddenly surged through her. Why was it that she could never do enough? Not before at Hogwarts, not now, not even when she was giving more than what she had. 

“I think it would be best if you would leave now,” she said coldly, “Even with two pain potions, I still feel like shite. I don’t know what you want me to say, either. If you want an apology, I’m sorry for not understanding you,  _ sir _ .” 

Professor Snape remained silent, and she wanted to slap him. He turned to leave, then paused in the doorway. “For what it’s worth, Miss Lestrange, I am sorry,” he said softly. 

Cassiopeia watched the door close, unsure if she should be grateful or hate Professor Snape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I hope you enjoyed the chapter! It was surprisingly challenging to write. If you are looking for other fics to read, check out my other on-going fics. The Chessmaster series features Harry, Ron, and Hermione all in Slytherin with a healthy dose of politics and worldbuilding. Requiem takes place in a dystopian Wizarding Britain where Voldemort won the first war, and has some strong Hunger Games vibes.
> 
> I hope everyone has been able to stay safe and healthy!


	6. The Path Ahead

_12 February 1997_

“Again,” Professor Snape snapped.

Cassiopeia straightened her back and raised her wand. Eyes narrowed, she flicked her wand in an anticlockwise circle. A shimmering shield burst into existence in front of her just as a barrage of spells pummelled its surface. Cassiopeia gritted her teeth, and channeled more power through her wand. Cracks began to form in the shield, and at the moment she felt the shield would break, Professor Snape stopped. 

“That was... acceptable.”

Cassiopeia released a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. 

“Do not believe you are now proficient enough with silent shielding. If I was casting at full power or sustained the attack for a few seconds longer, your shield would have collapsed.” 

“Yes, sir.”

Professor Snape nodded curtly. “The next step for you is to improve your casting speed and curse repertoire, as you not only need to hold your own against your cousin, but also defend yourself against your sainted mother, should that be necessary. Bellatrix has been rather… temperamental since her sojourn in Azkaban.”

“So I’ve heard,” Cassiopeia muttered.

“Be advised that her dueling skills have not diminished, and she has one of the largest repertoires of dark curses among the Death Eaters.”

“Who has the largest?”

Professor Snape smiled coldly. “That would be me. I have a bent for creativity that many of my fellow Death Eaters lack. Many of the curses I know are of my own invention, and are extremely challenging to parse as I cast silently.”

Cassiopeia opened her mouth, then closed it.

“I am not a nice man, Miss Lestrange,” Professor Snape said flatly. “While I thoroughly regret my decision to join the Death Eaters and do not support Lord Voldemort, these facts remain. I have created curses and jinxes solely for the purpose of causing harm. I have killed innocent men. For some of these things, I feel no remorse.”

Cassiopeia swallowed. Intellectually, she’d know Professor Snape wasn’t nice -- he had a cruel sense of humor, and a penchant for biting sarcasm. Reconciling the image of her Potions professor with a cold-blooded killer was nearly impossible. 

“Some people aren’t destined for kindness,” Professor Snape said quietly. “Some of us tread a darker path.”

“And what about me?” Cassiopeia asked, trying in vain to keep the fear out of her voice.

For a moment, there was softness in Professor Snape’s eyes. “Until the Dark Lord is defeated, it is a path you will tread as well.”

Cassiopeia swallowed again, emotions threatening to well up inside her. For some reason, it hadn’t hit until now. She’d have to become a genuinely horrible person to truly be Cassiopeia Lestrange, the Death Eater’s daughter. Nose prickling and tears gathering in the corners of her eyes, Cassiopeia ducked her head. 

A cool hand grabbed her chin, and forced her to look up. Professor Snape’s eyes bored into her. “I may not be a nice man, but I am a man of my word. I promised Albus I would do my best to ensure your safety. I have no intention of breaking that promise.”

Cassiopeia choked down her emotions, and nodded her understanding. 

Professor Snape looked at her again, gaze piercing her before he moved away. “Follow me. The curses I will teach you today are rather destructive, and necessitate the use of a specially warded chamber.” 

Professor Snape swept off, and Cassiopeia hurried to follow him. Much to her surprise, he headed towards the stairs to the lower levels of the manse, rather than anything on the main floor. 

“I thought you said the lower levels were warded.”

“That is correct,” Professor Snape said shortly. 

“Then why are we going there?” 

“Because I, unlike you, am keyed into the wards. As the owner of the Prince House, I can bring others through the wards with me.” Professor Snape frowned. “Have you not studied warding yet?” 

Cassiopeia shook her head. “Ancient Runes doesn’t cover warding until seventh year, and even then it’s only a general overview. I did some light reading on the topic, but most of the useful books were in the Restricted Section.” 

“Mm. There are several volumes in my library that may be of interest to you. Remind me to point them out to you later.” 

“Yes, sir.”

“Additionally, while we are on the subject of Ancient Runes, you will only take Ancient Runes and Arithmancy next year.” 

“But --” Cassiopeia started. 

“It is utterly inconceivable that the daughter of Bellatrix Lestrange would take Muggle Studies.”

“But what about Care of Magical Creatures? Malfoy is taking it.” Cassiopeia could hear the pathetic whine in her voice.

Professor Snape fixed her in a stare. “Ancient Runes and Arithmancy can easily be privately taught to a young witch in hiding. Care of Magical Creatures, not so much, unless you wish to pretend to understand theory alone.” 

Cassiopeia hated that he was right. “But what will I do with all my free time?”

Silence hung in the air for a heartbeat. “You turn seventeen this year.” 

“And?”

Professor Snape just looked at her, clearly waiting for the other coin to drop. Cassiopeia wracked her brain for what he could be alluding to. Then, it hit her with the force of a rampaging hippogriff. She stopped dead in her tracks.

“ _No_ ,” she whispered. “Merlin, no, I can’t, I --” her voice caught in her throat. “Professor -- I didn’t think you meant I’d have to --” her voice choked up again, and she stared at him helplessly. “ _Oh Merlin_.” 

The unusual softness reappeared in Professor Snape’s eyes. “For all it’s worth, I’m sorry,” he said quietly. 

“Did Professor Dumbledore know?” 

Professor Snape hesitated for a second. “Yes.” 

“How could he --” Cassiopeia couldn’t bear to finish the sentence. 

“The Headmaster plays a long game,” Professor Snape said slowly. “He lived through two major wars -- Grindelwald and the Dark Lord -- and understands exactly what price must be paid.”

Cassiopeia desperately tried to ignore the panic welling up inside her. “But why didn’t he tell me?” 

“Albus needed you to agree to his plan, and telling you that you would likely become a Death Eater would only scare you away.” 

_Death Eater._ The words hung in the air like a filthy curse. “What if I had said no?” 

Professor Snape looked tired. “He would have found a way to convince you; Albus is a master of that,” he said bitterly.

Cassiopeia sunk to the floor, back leaning against the wall. “So I never had a choice?” 

“No.” 

Cassiopeia’s hand cupped her chin. “Then why would he pretend that I had one?” Panic edged its way into her voice, and she couldn’t bring herself to care. 

“The Headmaster never wishes to bear bad news,” Professor Snape said after a moment. 

“And you?”

“I do my duty.” 

Cassiopeia hugged her knees close. “I don’t know if I can do this,” she whispered. 

“You can, and you will. I would have spoken strongly against Albus otherwise.” 

“How can you know that?”

Professor Snape settled himself next to her on the floor. “I simply do.”

“How?”

“Don’t fish for compliments, Miss Lestrange. It’s unbecoming.” 

“I --”

“Remember that if this goes poorly, my life is also forfeit.” Professor Snape’s mouth twisted wryly. “I am not a gambler, nor do I take unnecessary risks. There is a reason, after all, that I am not buried in an unmarked grave. If I did not believe you were capable, I would not risk my life to bring you into the fold.” 

Cassiopeia took a deep breath to steady herself. “I don’t understand why Professor Dumbledore needs me.”

There was something in Professor Snape’s eyes that looked suspiciously like pity. “Albus prefers to be prepared.”

Thoughts swirled in Cassiopeia’s mind, and a sinking suspicion lodged itself in her chest. “What do you mean by that?” 

“When I die,” Professor Snape said plainly, “the Headmaster will still have a spy in the Dark Lord’s ranks.”

When. Not if. “You expect to die?” Cassiopeia blurted, wincing at her own crassness. 

“I certainly do not plan on it, but it is a distinct possibility.” 

He didn’t say the words aloud, but Cassipeia could hear them in the air. _He doesn't expect to survive this war._

Professor Snape cleared his throat. “Enough with maudlin talk,” he said as he stood. “You have curses to learn.”

Cassiopeia made her way to her feet, mind still churning. “Professor -- I --”

Professor Snape favored her with a smile, but there was no warmth to it. “It’s unwise to dwell on things you cannot change. If you could take my arm, we will pass through the wardline. This may feel a bit strange.” 

Feeling slightly awkward, Cassiopeia took the proffered forearm. They walked forward, and a strange tingle somewhere between static buzz and crawling insects passed over her. Cassiopeia shuddered. 

“Do all wards feel like that?” she asked, releasing Professor Snape’s arm.

“Yes and no. The vast majority have a prickling sensation as you pass through them, providing you are keyed into the ward.”

“And what if you aren’t?”

“The consequences often are rather...undesirable.”

“ _Oh_.” 

“Indeed. Follow me.” Professor Snape turned, and headed down the stone corridor. The ceiling was lower than the rest of the manse, and a coolness permeated the stone. Their footsteps echoed softly off the walls, and torches casted a slightly sinister glow. 

Cassiopeia shivered. 

“You sense it, then?” 

Cassiopeia’s brow furrowed. “Sense what?”

“Old magic. The stones here are saturated with it. You may have experienced a similar sensation in the Hogwarts dungeons, or at Carn Euny.” 

“It feels like something is...off,” Cassiopeia ventured. 

“If you can truly sense it, you will feel something akin to a thrum under your skin.” 

Cassiopeia closed her eyes for a moment. She could sense...something…prickling at the corners of her consciousness. “I’ve never heard of magic saturing a place before.” 

“It occurs in locations with heavy magic usage; Diagon Alley is another such place, although there are sufficient distractions to distract you from noticing. You will find certain types of stone hold magic better than others.” 

“What does it mean, that they ‘hold magic’? And what exactly does that do?” 

“It is difficult to put into words. Certain buildings gain a level of sentience if wizards live there long enough and high levels of magic are performed. There is a certain --” Professor Snape’s fingers twitched. “--hum of magic in the air, a certain power that runs through the stones beneath your feet, a singing of sorts in your veins. As for what it does, nothing much, unless you are steeped in ritual magic.”

“Ritual magic?”

“Traditional witchcraft, a practice that unfortunately has withered over the years. Most of the subjects you study at Hogwarts are classified as wizardry, since they require heavy use of a wand. Other subjects, such as Herbology or Care of Magical Creatures, fall in neither category, but simply are good general knowledge classes. Alchemy lies at the intersection of witchcraft and wizardry; Transfiguration and Charms are purely wizardry. Potions and Divination are examples of witchcraft.”

Cassiopeia wrinkled her nose at the mention of Divination. “Really? The rubbish Professor Trelawney teaches?”

“No. Tea leaves and crystal balls are powerful tools for those who have the gift, and palmistry is, as you said, complete and utter rubbish. Other tools of Divination, such as entrail reading, are accessible to those who have some Sight, but lack the abilities of a true Seer.” 

“Is that really ritual magic? I thought it would be more complicated.” 

“Some of the older, non-Divinatory rituals are significantly more complicated and esoteric. Most have fallen out of practice, although some have been preserved.” Professor Snape cast a look sideways at her. “Several have been preserved by my mother’s family since the era of Solomon’s Temple. Around 1000 BCE,” he clarified. 

Cassiopeia’s eyes widened. “Wow.”

Professor Snape smirked. “The Hebrews were impressive practitioners of witchcraft, and my ancestors were certain to preserve their way of life, through their exile to Babylon, enslavement at the hands of the Romans, and their eventual immigration to and subsequent exile from Spain.”

“Have you tried any of the rituals?” 

Professor Snape shook his head. “No. The majority of them are written in Classical Hebrew -- an archaic version of Hebrew that is incredibly tedious to translate -- or in a form of Aramaic, depending on when the ritual was transcribed. Ritual magic can be dangerous even when you are completely certain of the ritual mechanics, let alone when you attempt to translate something from over one thousand years ago. Even if you had a perfect understanding of the ritual, weather patterns change over time, which affects flora, which in turn can have adverse effects on the ritual.”

Cassiopeia’s head swam. “That’s fascinating.”

“Indeed. However, it is a conversation best continued at a later date.”

Cassiopeia opened her mouth to protest, but Professor Snape cut her off. 

“You have curses to learn, Miss Lestrange, which may end up saving your life.”

Cassiopeia’s protest died on her lips. 

“This way,” Professor Snape said, leading her down a narrow side corridor that ended in an oak door bound with iron. “Stand back.” He flicked his wand out of its sheath, and twitched it in a complex pattern. The door shuddered, then creaked open. “Follow me.”

Cassiopeia cagily followed him, and noticed another strange tingle as she passed over the threshold. “Were those more wards?”

Professor Snape nodded absently as he lit the torches around the chamber. 

“They felt different than the ones we passed through earlier,” Cassiopeia commented. 

“That is because these ones lack the potential to be lethal.”

Cassiopeia’s heart skipped a beat. “Oh.”

Professor Snape flicked his wand, and a pair of dummies flew out of an alcove and settled themselves in the center of the room. Another swish of his wand shut the door, and a cloak-like feeling settled itself over Cassiopeia’s shoulders. 

“The curses I am about to teach you are all lethal,” Professor Snape said without preamble. “You need to be able to use all of them without hesitation, and without regret should the situation call for it. Your life may depend on your ability to kill someone before they can kill you, understand?”

“Yes, sir.” 

Professor Snape nodded. “Good. The first curse you’ll learn is the Entrail-Expelling curse…”

Professor Snape was a merciless instructor. Cassiopeia already knew that from Potions, but he was equally in his element in the Dark Arts. There was poetry to his movements that spoke of years of practice, and fierce savagery that made Cassiopeia never want to face him in a fight. His knowledge of curses was encyclopedic, and despite Cassiopeia’s protestations that she could learn a large number of curses, he insisted she focus on mastering a smaller repertoire. 

“It matters less how many ways you know how to kill someone, but rather how skilled you are in each method. You will make someone just as dead with a powerful Slicing Curse as with the Killing Curse. The Killing Curse, however, is significantly more difficult to learn, as are the other Unforgivables.”

“Moody -- er, the fake Moody -- mentioned that the Unforgivables were hard to cast, but he never really explained why. And there weren’t really any books that did either.”

Professor Snape smirked. “The Restricted Section wouldn’t carry material on that.”

“I did look.”

“Of course you did.” Professor Snape looked pensive. “Are you familiar with the esoteric requirements of the Patronus charm?” 

Cassiopeia blinked at the seeming non-sequitur. “Yes -- I can cast one.”

“That is extremely useful. You understand, of course, how you must sustain a happy memory to power your Patronus? The Unforgivables fall into the same category of esoteric magic. To cast the Imperius curse, you must wish to completely subjugate your victim. To cast the Cruciatus curse, you must maintain a feeling of undying hatred. And, to cast the Killing Curse, you must want nothing more in the moment than to kill.”

Cassiopeia swallowed hard. “And the fake Moody was able to cast them easily,” she murmured.

“Junior was always insane,” Professor Snape said quietly. “Even before Azkaban.” 

“Will I need to learn to cast the Unforgivables?”

“It would be helpful if you could gain proficiency with Cruciatus and the Imperius. The Killing Curse is less important, so long as you master the curses I teach you.” Professor Snape looked thoughtful. “You also will need to learn to throw the Imperius, but that will be learned at a later date. You also will need to experience the Cruciatus.”

Cassiopeia’s mind flashed back to the poor spider twitching under the imposter’s wand. “Experience the Cruciatus?”

Professor Snape nodded. “Nothing can truly prepare you for the horror and pain of the Cruciatus, but the first time is by far the worst. You need to at least have some understanding of the curse.” 

Cassiopeia willed her voice not to tremble. “Okay.” 

Professor Snape briefly rested his hand on her shoulder. “You can do this, Miss Lestrange. You will need to work hard, but you will master these curses.” 

“I just --”

“There is no space for self-doubt.”

“I know, I --”

“Or excuses. You have two months to distance yourself as far from your old identity as possible. Neither of us has time for coddling or dithering, understand?”

Cassiopeia looked down. “Yes, sir.”

Professor Snape checked his watch. “I have time to introduce one more curse before we break for lunch. This one is of my own invention, and one your _dear_ friend Mr. Potter used last year.”

Cassiopeia wisely kept her mouth shut.

“The name of the curse and its incantation are the same: _Sectumsempra_.” 

“Continuously slashing?”

Professor Snape nodded. “Sectumsempra causes severe cutting and hemorrhaging. If cast correctly, the victim can bleed out in minutes. Cast incorrectly, it can still cause severe damage. If the curse isn’t countered quickly, the damage will be permanent.” 

“So does Malfoy…?”

“Mr. Malfoy is fortunate that I was able to perform the countercurse before he bled out. Some of the scarring is permanent.” 

“Did Harry know…?”

“Mr. Potter, as usual, was careless and ignorant.” 

Cassiopeia wanted to defend Harry, but she had warned him not to use any of the curses from the Prince’s book. She also needed to get used to pretending to hate Harry Potter.

“...I trust you will be far more prudent with your use of the curse,” Professor Snape continued. “Sectumsempra is more difficult to cast than the others you learned today as it has an esoteric component. You must desire to deeply harm your opponent, and be able to thoroughly visual the level of destruction you wish to inflict. In fact,” Professor Snape mused, “that’s what makes Sectumsempra an excellent gateway to casting Unforgivables.”

Cassiopeia stared at him in horror. Professor Snape had invented this curse when he was still in Hogwarts?

“Go on,” Professor Snape said, gesturing towards one of the dummies. “Try it.” 

Cassiopeia willed her voice to be calm. “Could you demonstrate first?”

Professor Snape smiled coldly. “Of course.” In less than a heartbeat, his wand was in his hand and whipping through a figure eight pattern. “ _SECTUMSEMPRA!_ ”

The dummy exploded.


	7. Metamorphosis

_ 3 April 1997 _

Cassiopeia woke up in mind-splitting pain. Her bones felt like they were splintering, and every muscle fought the slightest movement. Cassiopeia’s back arched off her back, and her mouth opened in an involuntary silent scream as she struggled to breathe. The Cruciatus had been worse, but there was something uniquely horrible about waking up in unbelievable pain. 

“Zeesey!” she gasped. 

The house elf popped into view, eyes wide.

A fresh wave of pain washed over Cassiopeia. “Get...Snape,” she struggled. 

The house elf vanished with a pop, and Cassiopeia gritted her teeth. She wasn’t sure if she was waiting for seconds, minutes, or hours when Snape arrived. 

“It’s happening,” he murmured. His hand was cool under the back of her head as he pressed a potions vial to her lips. “Drink.” 

Cassiopeia choked down the potion, scarcely noticing the chalky flavor. The pain receded slightly, and Cassiopeia curled into a ball, tears streaming freely down her face. 

“It hurts,” she whimpered, eyes slitted against the pain. 

Snape stared at her impassively. “It is a completely understandable side effect. Your body is accustomed to a certain structure, and change at your age is unwelcome.” 

Cassiopeia gasped as a fresh wave of pain rolled over her. “How long… will it last?” 

“I don’t know.”

“Make it...stop.” 

“I can give you a dose of Dreamless Sleep, which will knock you out for eight hours. If you choose to take it, you will not be able to consume another pain potion for the next twelve hours. There are a few alternatives to reduce pain, but they are less effective.” 

Tears seeped out of Cassiopeia’s eyes. “Please…” 

Snape’s hand supported her head, and he held another vial to her lips. “Drink.” 

Cassiopeia did as she was bid, and knew no more. 

When she awoke, it was in a fresh haze of pain. Her head throbbed, and her brain felt like it was going to seep out of her ears. Her skin burned and crawled. She tried to scream, but her throat was too dry, and it came out as a weak rasp. A glass was held to her lips, and she drank greedily from it before it vanished, and was replaced by a vial. 

“Drink,” said a voice. It sounded familiar, but Cassiopeia couldn’t place it, lost as she was in a sea of pain. 

Cassiopeia drank, and retreated into the recesses of her mind as her body continued to twitch. 

Some indeterminate amount of time later, she opened her eyes. Her body still ached, but the mind numbing pain was gone. Shakily, she reached for the glass of water on her bedside table and took a sip. 

“Feeling better?” 

Cassiopeia started, and her body shrieked in protest. Snape rose fluidly from the window seat and strode toward her. 

“Any residual pain?”

If Cassiopeia was more naive, she would have thought he sounded concerned. “I feel like I got runover by a herd of rampaging hippogriffs.” 

“Hm.” 

Cassiopeia waited for him to comment further, but he didn’t. 

“When you recover sufficiently to leave your bed, call Zeesey to draw you a bath. I left potions which should be added to the water to alleviate any lingering soreness.” Snape turned to leave. “Dalpey will bring lunch to your room; however, I will expect you at dinner.”

“Wait!”

Snape stopped, hand on the door handle. He raised an eyebrow. 

“How long was I out?”

“Slightly over twenty-four hours. It is currently eleven in the morning.”

Cassiopeia gaped as Snape swept out of her room, closing the door behind him with a click. She’d been unconscious for nearly twenty-four hours. Just how much had she changed? For a moment, she didn’t even want to know. 

Cassiopeia pushed herself to sitting, and squared her shoulders, wincing at the movement. It was stupid to procrastine the inevitable, no matter how much she wanted to. Slowly, Cassiopeia made her way across her room and into the ensuite, eyes fixed on her feet. Taking a deep breath, Cassiopeia raised her eyes to look in the mirror. 

A stranger stared back. 

It was odd, the rationale part of her brain remarked, how much coloration changed the way a person looked. She’d always had a bit of bronze in her skin tone due to her supposed mother’s Greek heritage. All of that color had been leached away, and her hair darkened from dark brown to black. It would have been an unusual and almost pretty combination if it weren’t for her eyes, which were a disturbing shade of violet. 

Hands shaking, Cassiopeia studied the rest of her appearance. She was taller by two or three centimeters, and much thinner. There was something different about her nose. Her breasts were smaller, too. 

Tears pricked in the corners of her eyes. She hadn’t been pretty before, but she’d been able to manage well enough if she put effort into it. She’d liked being able to put on a decent tan in the summer, and being able to look feminine on her terms. She’d liked the feeling of smug satisfaction when Ron and Harry had realized that yes, she was a girl, and she’d secretly revelled in her roommates’ jealousy. 

It would have been better if her eyes had stayed brown. Then, at least, she could have pulled off some sort of Wednesday Addams look. The violet eyes ruined it. They pierced her, accusing her as tears rolled down her cheeks. 

Cassiopeia tore her gaze away from her reflection and wrapped her arms around herself. She sank to the floor, hugging her knees. Once again, she was completely lost for answers. It was an occurrence that was happening more and more often, and Cassiopeia hated it. Life had been so much easier when all the answers were found in books, and she didn’t need to worry about a homicidal mother or being the weirdest looking girl in Hogwarts. 

Another wave of sadness washed over her, and fresh tears ran down her face. How was she supposed to handle this? She hadn’t even finished Hogwarts, and already she was expected to take on larger responsibilities than most of the Order. What had Dumbledore been thinking? 

More importantly, what had she been thinking? It was a sobering thought, and a testament to how much of Snape’s cynicism she’d picked up over the past few months. Knowing what she knew now, Cassiopeia doubted she would have accepted Dumbledore’s plan so readily. Sure, she would have accepted it in the end, but not without some serious questions. 

She hadn’t realized how much of her old self she would need to give up. 

She also still didn’t understand why they hadn’t Obliviated Draco Malfoy, and anyone else who’d seen her family tree. 

A lot of things weren’t quite adding up. 

Cassiopeia shuddered, unsure if she wanted to cry, scream, or curl up in a ball on the floor. Life had been so much easier when the war was an abstract concept. The Order was good, the Death Eaters were bad, and once they defeated Voldemort, it’d all be over. Unfortunately, reality was proving to be more complicated than she’d ever imagined, and it was only going to get worse. The real kicker was that she could do nothing about it. 

She was the daughter of Bellatrix and Rodolphus Lestrange. Nothing in the universe could change that. All she could do was stand and fight. 

With a supreme amount of effort, Cassiopeia stood, doing her best to ignore the pain throbbing through every muscle and bone. “Zeesey?”

The house elf popped into the ensuite. “How can Zeesey be helping Miss?” 

“Draw me a bath, please. Snape left potions…” 

Zeesey snapped her fingers, and the bath filled. Several potions bottles floated over, and poured themselves into the water. “Miss should be staying in the bath for at least thirty minutes,” the house elf lectured. “When Miss is done, Miss can be calling Zeesey if she still is being sore. Zeesey can be bringing more potions from Master Snape.” 

“Thank you, Zeesey.” 

The house elf popped away, and Cassiopeia gingerly climbed in the bath, desperate to ignore the world for at least a little while longer.

Several hours later, after ingesting several more potions and some lunch, Cassiopeia made her way down to the library. Her entire body still ached, but now it felt like she was recovering from a long illness rather than being actively beat up by a horde of hippogriffs. Snape was sitting at a desk by the window, lank hair falling into front of his face as he leaned over a thick book. 

Something alerted him to her presence, and he looked up. His face twisted for a moment, then cleared. “You look a lot like your mother,” he said quietly. “Except the eyes. Those are all Rodolphus.” 

Cassiopeia’s mouth tightened. “There’s no doubt who my parents are.” 

Snape studied her for a moment. “No, there is not. It is unlikely that anyone at Hogwarts will recognize you. Although, there is one more thing we must do.”

“What?”

“Replace your wand.”

Cassiopeia took a step back. “What?”

“I trust your hearing is adequate.”

“Why?”

Snape looked more annoyed than usual. “Think for a moment, and try to figure it out.” 

Cassiopeia’s mind spun. “But -- this is my wand. And the wand chooses the wizard.” 

Snape’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, and that is not Cassiopeia Lestrange’s wand.  _ That  _ wand belongs to Hermione Granger.” 

“Oh.” 

Snape smirked. “Indeed.”

“Where will I get a new wand? Ollivander’s? Wouldn’t he recognize me?”

“No. We will return to Carn Euny. There is a wand maker there who is just as skilled as Ollivander.”

“I thought everyone got their wands at Ollivander’s.”

“Most get their first wands at Ollivander’s, and those who favor the Merlinian wand system continue to purchase wands there.” 

“The Merlinian wand system?”

Snape was taken aback. “You’ve never heard of the Merlinian wand system?” 

“No. Should I have?”

Snape eyed her like she was a flobberworm. “Yes. It should have been covered in your first year Magical Theory class and expanded upon in History of Magic.”

“Bloody hell, what are they even teaching these days?” Snape muttered under his breath. 

Cassiopeia did her best not to snicker.

“In 559, Merlin pioneered a new method for channeling magic: the wand. Previously, wizards used staff or staves as foci, which lent themselves to large, powerful displays of magic, but little fine control. No foci was used for precise magical workings, and there was a larger emphasis on ritualized group magic. 

“The invention of the wand, and it’s accompanying postulate was groundbreaking. Wizards could now harness most of the raw power of a staff and couple it with the precision of non-foci magic. Merlin postulated that every magic user will be compatible with a wand made from no more than two types of wood and one of the three principle cores: dragon heartstring, unicorn hair, and phoenix feather.

“The Wand Postulate has driven commercial wand making for more than a millenia; however, there is sufficient proof that other wand cores can be used, for example, thestral tail hair, basilisk heartstrings, and gryphon feathers. These wands tend to be less versatile, and are less viable for a larger business like Ollivander’s, which sells hundreds of wands per year. Furthermore, wands using non-principal cores often require more than one type of wood and more than one core material. As you may have gathered, this makes them far more expensive to produce.”

“So what would be the advantage to developing wands that don’t adhere to the Wand Postulate?”

“Customizability. A crude analogy is buying shoes. If you go to a Muggle shop, you can buy a pair of trainers in a number of set sizes. If you go to a cobbler, you can get a pair of shoes perfectly sized to your foot.”

“How do you know all this?”

“I read,” Snape said dryly. 

Cassiopeia glared at him.

“It was also explained to me when I purchased my wand.”

“Oh. What type of wand do you have?”

“Hawthorne and silver lime, with a thestral hair core.”

“What --”

“If you wish to learn more about wandlore, there are plenty of books in the library,” Snape interjected. “Although, your time would be better spent reviewing your Occlumency exercises or continuing to work through  _ Magick Moste Fowle _ .” 

“When will we go to Carn Euny?”

“Tomorrow, if possible. We have nearly caught up the rediscovery of Cassiopeia Lestrange, and your family will be eager to make your acquaintance.” 

Shock washed through her. “So soon? We initially traveled back in June -- how will this work with our past selves?”

“That is my responsibility, not yours. I will see you at dinner.” 

Recognizing a dismissal, Cassiopeia slowly made her way back to her room and collapsed on her bed, mind racing with questions.

* * *

_ 4 April 1997 _

Cassiopeia hurried after Snape, nose twitching under the glamour. 

“Remember,” Snape said as they walked briskly towards the entrance of Carn Euny, “we are once again under the guise of John Carne and his niece, Demelza. You may be tempted to reveal your true name to the wandmaker. You must not, under any circumstance, do this.”

Cassiopeia’s brow furrowed. “He’s not human, then?”

Snape was quiet for a moment. “I don’t know.”

“I’m confused.” 

“Magical genetics can be...complicated, as well as political.”

“Political? How do you mean?”

“Under Ministry law, only humans may wield wands. However, the designation for qualifying as ‘human’ is loose -- take Hagrid, for example, who is a half giant, Flitwick, who is a quarter goblin, or Miss Delacour, who is a quarter veela. All of them were permitted wands.” Snape paused for a moment, picking his words carefully. “For those who are less than fifty percent human, Ministry guidance becomes less clear, and the incentive to adhere to it decreases significantly among those who can pass as human -- mainly members of the Fair Folk. It is an interesting legal grey area that you should not discuss in public.”

“So are...beings...illegally obtaining wands?”

Snape stopped to stare at her. “Are you being willfully obtuse?”

“No...”

“You shouldn’t need to ask that question,” Snape said, voice deadly, “And I certainly will not be answering it. Now, come along. We only have so long before my Polyjuice wears off.”

Snape took off at a brisk stride, and Cassiopeia once again hurried after him. Their footsteps echoed hollowly off the stone corridor leading into the magical sector of Carn Euny, and Cassiopeia pulled her cloak tighter around her, feeling oddly nervous about meeting the wand maker. Ruan Trevorrow had been strange, but Snape at least had been at ease with him. The wandmaker seemed like another kettle of grindylow, if the set of Snape’s mouth said anything about it. 

“Stay close,” Snape muttered as they made their way through the maze of stalls inside Carn Euny. “Also, do not explicitly thank or apologize to the wandmaker.” 

“You keep saying ‘the wandmaker’. What’s his name?”

“You’ll see,” Snape said evasively. “Names have power, and only fools utter them needlessly.” 

They headed deeper into Carn Euny, and the height of the stalls on the cavern walls increased, as well as the overall feeling of being crowded in and watched. Cassiopeia looked over her shoulder, and stepped closer to Snape.

“You feel it, then?” he asked quietly. “This is the oldest part of Carn Euny. Stay alert.” 

Cassiopeia’s eyes darted from side to side as the hair stood up on the back of her neck. There was something profoundly unsettling about the old quarter of Carn Euny, and she had no desire to find out what it was. 

“Here,” Snape said, stopping abruptly. 

‘Here’ was a shop built into the cavern wall with worn letters spelling out ‘Gorron’s Wands’ etched above the doorway.

Snape eyed the shop for a moment, then started towards the doorway. “Follow me.” Cassiopeia did as she was bid. The inside of the shop was cool, and surprisingly well lit given the lack of windows. A lone man hunched over a workbench in the back corner, and looked up at their arrival. 

“The girl requires a wand.”

Snape inclined his head. “Indeed.”

The man put down the block of quartz he was holding, and made his way to them. “And your name is?”

“You may call me John,” Snape said smoothly. 

“And the girl’s name?”

“You may call her Demelza,” Snape said before Cassiopeia could answer.

The man tipped his head to the side, scrutinizing them. “Very well...John. You may call me Gorron.” Gorron fixed Cassiopeia in his gaze, then circled around her, inhaling deeply. “Blood?”

“No,” Snape said sharply. 

Gorron stopped his circling. “Hair?”

“No.”

“Paranoid, I see.”

Snape shrugged. 

Gorron looked her up and down, and Cassiopeia resisted the urge to shudder under his gaze. She now understood what Snape meant with Gorron. He looked human enough, but there was something about him that was slightly off. She couldn’t tell if it was his gait, his speech, or his overall mannerisms, but there was something about him that made her skin crawl. 

Gorron stopped moving, and inhaled deeply once more. “I will return,” he said abruptly before heading deeper into the shop.

Cassiopeia flicked her eyes over to Snape. “Is he --”

“Not now,” Snape said quietly. 

Gorron returned with several jars floating behind him alongside several thin wands. He set them down on the work table and beckoned them over. “These,” he said, gesturing to the five wands in front of him, “are blank wands -- wands without a core. These,” he gestured to the jars, “contain wand cores I feel would be compatible with your magic. You will take your hand, close your eyes, and pass your hand over the wand woods. When you feel attracted to or repelled from a wood, say so.” 

Cassiopeia stepped forward reluctantly, and hovered her hand a few centimeters above the blank wands. She closed her eyes, and cleared her mind. Then, she reached out with her senses. The first wand felt alien to her senses. “Not this one,” she murmured. The next one felt neutral, as did the third one. The fourth seared through her soul, and Cassiopeia gasped as her hand shook. “This one…” she began, unable to articulate how the wood burned, yet felt utterly right. 

“You have a strong affinity for that one,” Gorron said. “Continue to the last, if you will.”

Cassiopeia moved her hand over the last wand wood, and immediately felt as if a magnet was embedded in the palm of her hand. “This one, too.”

She opened her eyes, and Gorron stood, head cocked to the side. “Interesting,” he muttered. “Very interesting. Continue the process for the wand cores, if you will.” 

Cassiopeia moved towards the jars, all of which contained varying amounts of slimy somethings. She closed her eyes and moved her hand over the jars. “The second one,” she said quickly.

“Not the third, at all?” 

“It didn’t feel bad, but it didn’t feel right.” 

Gorron raised an eyebrow. “Interesting.”

“And the choices she made were?” Snape prompted. 

“Blackthorn and walnut, for wood. Manticore heartstring for the core. Very unusual choices, Miss...Demelza.”

Cassiopeia opened her mouth to correct him on her name when Snape stepped in front of her. “We would prefer to receive the wand sooner rather than later.” 

Gorron smiled, and with a frisson of fear, Cassiopeia realized his teeth were strangely sharp. “Of course...John. I must insist you step outside the shop while I sing the wood.”

Snape inclined his head. “Certainly. Come along, Demelza.” 

Snape’s grip on her upper arm was uncomfortably tight as he steered her out of the shop. “Don’t breathe a word,” Snape said, cutting her off before she could even open her mouth. “I will explain more later.” 

Cassiopeia stared at him helplessly, fear running hot down her spine. 

“You needn’t be afraid,” Snape said, not moving his lips. “We will only be here a few moments longer, and it will be worth it when you wield your wand.”

Time stretched uncomfortably until an ululating cry echoed from the shop, and Cassiopeia jumped. 

“We can return to the shop,” Snape said quietly. 

Cassiopeia followed him back in. Gorron stood behind the work table, and a dark brown wand lay on the table in front of him. Snape drew a pouch of coins from the depths of his robes. “Payment in exchange of goods delivered.” 

Gorron held the wand forward. “A wand delivered in exchange for Galleons. Blackthorn and walnut, unvarnished, mated with a manticore heartstring core.” 

Snape handed Cassiopeia the pouch of Galleons. “Give this to him in exchange for the wand.”

Cassiopeia walked forward, and set the pouch on the table, taking the wand from Gorron as she did. Immediately, warmth raced through her fingers, chasing its way through her entire body. It felt like a fire, like whiskey, like the edges of fear. Something about the wand felt utterly perfect. 

She flicked the wand. “ _ Avis _ .” An unkindness of ravens poured out of her wand, and she gasped. 

Snape’s hand rested firmly on her shoulder. “We are appreciative of the effort you put into crafting this wand, Gorron.” 

Gorron smiled, once again revealing his teeth. This time, however, Cassiopeia didn’t feel afraid. With her wand in her hand, she felt whole. She felt powerful. And, for the first time, being Cassiopeia Lestrange felt completely and utterly  _ right _ . 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sorry for the long wait! Real life has been ~wild~, and writing angsty sections has been a struggle. The good news is that the plot is about to pick up substantially, and the angst should be over! I hope you all enjoyed this chapter! Your comments, kudos, and bookmarks mean a lot!

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I've had a lot of free time recently due to the quarantine and went through the archives of my Google drive. After perusing through some of my old partially written fics, I decided to start posting some of them for your enjoyment. Not sure what type of update schedule I'll be able to maintain, but I hope you all enjoy this fic!


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